History Of A Car Crash
by PopShop
Summary: UNDER REVISION. Roxas fights for his own sense of recognition after his brothers death, but after venturing deep into street society, he discovers his brothers death may not have been as unexpected as he had initially thought ...
1. Mute Little Mermaid

**All new now. I fixed it, well, tried. New and improved HOACC ... Which looks like an STD, but we'll skip over that. What do i actually say here? Welcome? 'Don't hate, tolerate!' haha. I guess i can apologize for spelling like a nob. And that what i say here is absolutely no reflection on my writing style or how this story is gonna wind up. Enjoy ... i guess ... :D**

* * *

There's a stack of cards littering the breakfast table. Some of which remain unopened. An avalanche of unanswered apologies, these crinkled envelopes, a tumble of yellow and white, have become a more permanent decoration in your home. To wake up each morning and see these scattered letters, these are your scars. Ugly reminders of painful events left to the past. The scrawled names of relatives you've long since forgotten, feel as though they've been scratched into your skin. With vague interest you scan the messages, bleary, bloodshot eyes dragging lazily over the sorrowful scene.

_'We're sorry for your loss.'_

'_Sorry.' _

One reads 'Get well soon'.

How inappropriate.

Death is an incurable disease, a permanent state, a little more contagious than most will admit. It's not just the robbery of one life, it's the chain reaction, the turbulent emotions that leap from loved one to the next. Death consumes their thoughts.

It's got your mind in it's rotten fingers.

You dance your fingertips purposely over the cards, reaching for a photograph resting atop the pile. It's paper throne.

It's old, the corners folded and torn with age. Coffee rings and fingerprints, people who refuse to face into memory.

You struggle to recognise the frozen faces timelessly watching you.

Such a happy family captured within the thin white border. An image from your childhood you can never recapture.

A mother and father, holding hands, smiling with what you assume to be something remotely resembling love. They're too young, the world hasn't caught up to them yet.

But it did.

The father's hand rests possessively upon the shoulder of his eldest son. The young boy looks grim, perhaps aware of what lay in his future. His mouth a thin line, his skin a sickly pale shade. Even then shocking blue of his eyes had lost it's glimmer. More a grey than anything, identical to the ominously grey clouds gathering overhead. Pale, pastel colors, easily covered, easily influenced, and in the last few weeks of his life, that boy was anyone's but his own. His words formed someone else's, his heart beating to keep a smile on his father's face.

Standing noticeably separate from the family, the youngest son, eyes cast downwards, the corners of his mouth curled downwards, his arms folded stubbornly across his frail chest. A vision of childish innocent, a hint at his potential for rampaging teenage arrogance. You can easily picture the thoughts and emotions flitting through this boys head as the flash captured him how he'd always be remembered. How accurate. He still feels the same.

You should know.

You see him through the mirror everyday.

Your eyes no longer reflect the light, the muscles in his face having long since forgotten how to smile. Just pointless fashion accessories you sees no practicality in.

You slam the photo on the table in frustration, some of the cards fluttering to the floor, a ridiculous imitation of the tears you can't bring yourself to cry.

_Welcome to your life._

"I'm going out," you mutter to no one in particular. What's left of the family from the photograph has lost interest in the straying son, always standing a little further apart.

* * *

The grave still looks new, foreign and unwelcome among all the old decaying stone markers. The grass has yet to grow here, patchy dirt covering the burial patch, the earth still recovering from a death it did not expect. It's stunted recovery.

You kneel before it, the material of your jeans so thin at the knees, the moisture soaking in steadily. A desperate chill set up the notches in your spine and like a drug you'll return here to fall before this final resting place, and each day you'll struggle at conversation. You trace the carved letters, so rough and basic, much like the boy buried beneath.

_"Loving son and brother"_.

Your brother.

You wonder momentarily if he misses you as much as you miss him. Can he see the downward spiral he's set before you and your father? If he could have his last few moments back, what would he say? Offer you an uncharacteristic sympathy? Stroke your back gently and tell you it was inevitable? Or bury a fist in your dirty blonde looks, push your nose into the dirt of his final destination and blame you? A poster-child for an unstable personality. He's silent, inviting you to talk, although he never used to listen, and you're well aware he's not listening now.

"Dad misses you."

Your voice sounds scratchy and harsh, hardly appropriate for a graveside conversation. You say it more as an accusation. Your father is behaving as though he's lost his only son, rarely speaking to you. You make a point of not interacting with the sorry excuse, the rotting old man, resigned to decaying within the walls of his broken family home. Brief encounters and lying smiles, What your relationship has been reduced to.

You've lost your only friend.

"What happened you?" you ask again, for the umpteenth time, once again hoping for some sort of sign from beyond the grave. His monotone drawl, a brief few words giving you permission to carry on. He's still reluctant to tell you. Those words trapped forever behind motionless lips.

Your brother was killed in the fighting. The dramatically un necessary showdowns, tearing the streets apart as well as the families. He was another unfortunate casualty. The authorities reluctant to look into the incident, for fear of investigation into one murder case, leading to various families insisting the same treatment on their own victims of battle. The Shinra empire only embarking on his rampage to success, political parties far too concerned with Shinra monopolizing 'their' world to even consider the disaster raging through the city streets.

Your father hit a low point soon after your brothers death, retreating to his room for days, looking over old photographs and school reports, fondly forcing a laugh every so often. In denial regarding your existence. Exercising his fondness for playing the victim.

Concentrating on the cold stone, you keep your words to a minimum, reluctant to forgive your brother for his involvement in the streets.

It's common knowledge you have to be civil to a dead person.

"Whatever," you grumble at the lack of response to your previous question, heaving your creaking bones from the ground and vainly attempting to brush the dirt from his grave off your knees. Another scar for you to ignore.

* * *

The beach.

He used to stand here for hours, staring at the waves, wordlessly. Enjoying the feeling of being among a happy family, although no necessarily his own. Smiling children running about him giggling, laughing, gestures foreign to him. Women occasionally greeting him with a smile, a brief nod.

Of course it was all just happy imagination. Your brother had been carved from ice, constantly changing. And while the society around him remained unchanging, fixed pieces in a bigger puzzle.

Your brother was never meant to fit in.

You stand in the same spot as he once did, watching the violent grey waves, the wind whipping your skin. This beach is so ugly right now, but yet you can't help but feel homesick at it's emptiness. You want something more from this scene, but you can't understand what. There's no people, a quick glance at your watch quickly clarifies why at such an early hour.

Sit in the sand, hold your head in your hands, You have plenty of issues with being alive.

Way off, along the pier, barely visible to you a girl climbs from the water, blonde hair pasted to her head, skin tinted blue with the early morning chill.

She's laughing, but there's no one to hear.

She's naked, but there's no one to see.

Embarrassed, you cast your eyes once more over the stormy waves and wonder vaguely why a girl would chose a morning where the sea is angry, vengeful, it's voice raging and crashing along the shoreline. There's a flurry of movement in her direction before you dare turn your eyes to see her walk slowly, barefoot along the pier, high-heals clutched in her hands, a distant smile playing on her lips. Her pale dress blending with her pastel shaded skin.

She walks by you and doesn't seem to notice. It's a fact your growing more accustomed to. Your urban camouflage is too good.

No one knows you're there.

In the following days, you find yourself standing among the wind and the sea spray more than you ever did while you were young and this obsessive behaviour was acceptable.

The girl returns each day, clutching the same sparkly red heels in her hands. She reaches the end of the pier, and unashamedly tears her dress off before diving into the murky waters, regardless of the weather. And each day you find yourself watching with only one question in mind.

"Is she gonna resurface?"

It's ridiculous how people who take such little interest in their own health can outlive those cautious and protective people, like your brother. But here stands your experiment, a visual indication, the lively young girl swimming in the ocean as the winter months draw closer, while your brother lies underappreciated among the frozen earth. How she offers herself willingly to the icy waters, while your brother constantly worked to avoid that chilling sensation, despite witnessing it in his own eyes in every reflection that followed him.

Finally you unearth the courage to confront this girl, discover if maybe, in a way, she's already suffering something relative to death. To see if there's method to her madness. Because yours to is unfocused.

As your near her neat bundle of clothes on the pier, you hear her splashing beneath you, it's then the embarrassment creeps up your neck, spreading a blush with it. An uncomfortable heat reaching from the clammy palms of your hands to the back of your neck. A sudden sensation of smothering, despite the surrounding scene of the great outdoors. The bundled up dress a reminder of why you had previously failed to confront her. Her clothing an unnecessary reminder of your embarrasment, your social awkwardness, an inability to communicate with these street-wise flowers.

"Excuse me miss?" you ask, as politely as you can force, the words sound completely foreign spilling from your mouth.

There's a hesitation below, even the water itself seems to pause, awaiting her answer.

"Yes," she sings at you, although her voice sounds strange, you assume distorted by the waves. Like a mermaid enticing you to your death. You warily eye the turbulent waters, edging further from the edge of the pier.

"Are you alright?"

Another pause follows.

You chance a brief glance over the side into the murky waters below, arms outstretched to maintain your balance, wondering how this lady looks up close. She's struggling up the ladder, knuckles frozen with the cold. Thin blonde hair clings to her shoulders, bones protruding painfully through her skin. From this angle you can almost count the notches in her spine. You peel your eyes away from the painful vision as she nears the top of the ladder, snatching the dress from your feet as the rose blush spreads once again across the bridge of your nose like a fever.

Your spine almost cracks withe the speed at which you glance away.

She struggles and grumbles with her clothes before clapping her hands together enthusiastically. The sound echoing along the empty beach.

"You comin'?" she asks, her accent so strange and bright among this world she's so attached to, the grey clouds and the ugly waters. You struggle to understand her friendly invitation, an unquestionable innocence. She speaks like she knows you, and you almost pity her for it.

Suddenly, as you replay her words, you feel like you've missed all your lines in her little monologue.

_Where are you going?_

Barely twenty minutes later, you're seated opposite her in a dank, dreary hole of a café, she's nursing a cup between frail hands and wearing a vacant smile that vaguely disturbs you. The smell of cigarettes and sex lingers, stinging your nostrils and burning your eyes. Despite the falsities her expression advertises, her attempt at warmth is almost comforting. It almost sets your heart beating.

You feel overwhelmed with an unexplained shame and guilt while various other people in the cafe stare at you and whisper about you behind sound-proof hands as though you're the cause of the mascara spilling over her cheeks. Throughout, she never fails to smile.

Up close, you can't help but admit that she is strangely pretty. Unnatural, unique, comparable to your brother's brand of superhuman. She reminds you of your brother before reality hit him. There's electricity in her eyes, vivid blue, flashing with more emotion that just happiness. Her skin is pale, her lips are tinted blue from the icy waters. Her hair barely reaches her shoulders, emphasizing the tendons and bones in her shoulders and neck, her simple dress doing nothing to cover them. Veins stretching like a web between pasty skin, marking the roads of her life.

"What's your name hun?" she asks, her eyes still entranced by the steam in her cup.Her voice maintains it's distorted characteristic. The same uncaring tone she addressed you with from beneath the pier.

"It's Roxas," you offer, voicing it as more of a question than a fact. Sometimes you wonder yourself. Your mind can't make order of the questions you have for this girl, It struggles fruitlessly with the scrambled letters.

It's as though she knows your struggling with the most basic of human interaction, and she's silently enjoying that fact, a coy smile on her face.

After moments of awkward silence between you, your eyes drifting to the world beyond the windows, she stands up suddenly, pushing the cup across the table, slamming a fistful of notes on the surface before offering you a welcoming smile. Cheap dirt.

"I'll see you around, Roxas".

Even after she's gone, you can still smell the cheap perfume from the stained notes she placed on the table.

In her absence, the questions become clear and organised, the first one already forming on your neglected lips.

"What's your name?" you whisper to yourself before taking your leave.

You have no idea where she's left you. You're not so knowledgeable about this area of town. The rough areas, where the fighting claimed your brother.

Most of the buildings are vacant, boarded up with spray-paint declarations scrawled across the decaying brick work. The streets are littered with broken glass, and suspicious stains on the tarmac, and you find yourself frantic, the possibility of this being where your brother met his end.

_Keep your head down, Roxas. You're best at being nothing._

A handful of people stand idle about the street, leaning against the boards, their presence punctuated by the glowing tips of their cigarettes. Angry eyes following your every movement. You pass quickly by a small group of under dressed middle-aged women, cackling and shoving eachother, before the inevitable pause as you attempt to steer silently around them. You're not even outside the range of noise their voices can reach before you hear the usual cat-calls, _'pretty-boy_,' '_little girl, where's your smile gone?' _And although you're aware they do not expect a response to their taunting questions, you've already prepared you reasons behind your lips. Verbal bombshells for them to consider.

Your eyes remain glued to the cracked pavement and the litter gathering against the buildings. You know where you are now. You know whose those women are.

Something sparkles among the litter, glittering red. You recognise them as the shoes of the young girl from earlier. She's gazing at the sky, a cigarette hanging lifelessly from her lips.

"Heya Roxas. Sorry hun but I'm back on the clock .. We could go somewhere if you like?" she rattles it off, making it blatantly obvious he's not the first one she's proposed this to. She doesn't even turn those misty eyes to glance at you.

Prostitutes.

You should have noticed her 'pretty' was rehearsed.


	2. Roxas and Roxanne

Days blur together like the lipstick smeared across her cheeks. you see her by the water, She's content to feel the rawness of nature as oppose to her own industrial wasteland corner of the city, The burnt out buildings and unmarked graves. you don't approach her. You fear stops you every time.

Occasionally you venture towards her end of the city, Far from the roaring waves and happy families. Each day she stands strong among the debris of the battle zone, the litter flittering around her feet. Her smile is far away, the smoke curling from the cigarette clinging to her lips acts as your summons; It curls around cement barriers and beckons you to her.  
everyday she reads you your rights.  
"You wanna go somewhere? I'm on the clock hun" 

Today the scene remains the same, But there's red emotions behind it.  
An explosive argument between you and your father this morning has clouded your common sense.  
The trashy goddess guarding her street corner no longer seems something so sacred.  
She poses the usual question with the usual casual indifference, her eyes still rooted to the heavy smoke choking the blue skies.  
"Yeah, I do wanna go somewhere." it hardly sounds like your voice.  
"Let's go back to that little café place".  
Your frustration from earlier still hasn't dissolved into your blood.  
She stubs the cigarette on the wall by her face, brushing down her torn dress in vain, combing dirty fingers through her dirty blonde hair.  
"Let's go then kiddo". 

"Suddenly your speaking to me?" she asks, Curious, An innocent smile across her lips.  
"I need someone to talk to i guess," The butterflies in your stomach signal the end of the frustrations.  
"Something wrong?" her interest seems to peak, her vivid blue eyes staring you down.  
Get up and walk away, Roxas.  
the awkward hesitance does not go un noticed by the girl who has trained herself to read people.  
She changes the subject.  
"What're you doin' 'round here?" her smile makes a re appearance.  
You picture your brother, You picture her street. You picture the blood and his ragged screaming.  
"Just gettin' some air," Force your best smile and play it cool.  
"The only thing you're breathin' in this part of town, Hun, Is the smog and the cigarettes. Strange places you chose to do your thinking in," she drums and impatient tune with grubby fingernails on the tabletop, Gesturing for a waiter, The whole time, Her eyes resting heavily on you, The pressure making it hard to explain yourself.  
You realise she's referring to your intrusions on her visits to the beach each morning.  
"Isn't that why you go there? To think?" the question sounds defensive even to you own ears.  
She glares at you with something relative to suspicion before turning her attention to the looming waiter. 

They gossip, And joke, Probably a former customer.  
Your eyes fall on the breakfast bar, Studying the other customers as this unnamed girl discusses unfamiliar people and happenings to your greasy waiter.  
An old man, Nose buried in a newspaper he's squinting to read. A young mother scolding her toddler while balancing a sleeping child awkwardly on her hip. 

A few seats from the man and his newspaper, Sits an unusual sight, A young man Hunched over the breakfast bar. From where you sit, His profile is outlined against the smudged windows. He's angular, his face pointed, more like a pixie than a teenager. The glowing tip of a cigarette is visible clenched between his teeth, despite the no smoking sign nailed above his head. An ironic halo. His eyes are closed; He wears an expression of concentration. He wears his urban uniform like a good child, A hood pulled down over his eyes. Long red strands hang from inside the hood; So long they rest against the countertops. 

The pretty vision opposite you barely manages to steal your attention away from the new boy. Her eyes are searching your face for an explanation as to where your mind has wandered to. You notice you waiter has manages to peel himself away from a potentially good night to get you your coffee. 

"You okay Roxas?" You're momentarily stunned, Realising she's remember your name among all the others. She hasn't labelled you "pretty boy" like most of the other inhabitants on her street have grown accustomed to calling you.  
You play the sentence over again in your mind, forming the words with your own lips.  
It's then you realise ...  
"I know this is gonna sound .. rude? ... But what's your name? I've never heard it before".  
It's her turn to pause, Her confidence on hold momentarily. She rules ocean blue eyes, searching the air for some sort of answer, something believable. You consider telling her she needn't try hard. You'll always be an idiot. 

"You can call me melody. Since we're more so on professional terms don't you think?" she smiles, Gesturing lazily to your surroundings, A general action, But your eyes can't help but rest once more on the hooded man by the bar.  
Surely you'd remember seeing someone so visually strange as this boy, crawling the dirty streets with the same suspicious reluctance you do. He leans back on his stool, Lips parted slightly as he watches the smoke drift towards the ceiling fans.  
Your amazed by the obliviousness of the staff. There's something detached about his actions, Your not comfortable. 

"Roxas? Hey? You take me here, But you never talk. You're one weird kid, You'know?" Her voice is too loud, Rattling around in your vacant mind.  
"Sorry, I don't really have much to talk about". You still manage to sound a little to young in such worn surroundings.  
"Didn't you just say you needed someone to talk to? ... You're hard to read Rox. And i .. I know people".  
The words are barely from her lips before you interrupt with the all-to-familiar, "Don't Call me that".  
Your brothers back in your mind, Banging on the walls of your mind. He used to call you rox.  
She looks more so understanding than offended. 

She parts lips to offer you a weak apology, But a commotion at the breakfast bar causes her to spin around in the torn red vinyl. Her waiter from earlier, Arguing with the pixie boy, Gesturing frantically at the smouldering cigarette, Before throwing his hands in the direction of the door. The red head laughs, And Melody's leg suddenly presses against your own beneath the table, Rigid with tension. Her well-trained smile runs from her lips. She makes a move to stand, Struggling, But your attention is steadily focused on the red head, Lurched like an animal, Eyes glowing beneath his hood much like the tip of his cigarette, Which continues to burn away, Pressed between his lips. 

In the commotion, The young mothers baby has begun to scream, she's panicking and her toddler sees this as a window of opportunity to dart between tables and chairs, Making his own way to the breakfast bar. The young child slams against the leg of the hooded boy, His eyes solely focused on his mother, Rather than the increasingly angry ruffian by the bar. 

The red head stumbles, Catches himself, His hood falling and pooling around his shoulders.  
With the screaming of the baby, the mothers frantic pleas and the giggling toddler, You miss Melody's "I gotta go Roxas".  
The cigarette has fallen from his lips in his eagerness to verbally assault the hyperactive child, And the waiter seems satisfied, Smiling as he takes his leave, Stepping once more for good measure on the cigarette, Mashing it further into the scarred lino tiles.  
The pixie boy takes his seat once more, before rabid, Acid-coloured eyes settle on you.  
For that split second, Breathing becomes a laborious chore. His face is painful, Pushing at the boundaries in your mind.  
You spin 'round to break the tension, The electricity in his eyes, Numbing your limbs.  
All your left with is a lipstick stained napkin.  
"Melody?"


	3. Hate Is A Strong Word

"Roxas". He roars his frustrations to the broken down plasterboard he calls home. His voice ricocheted in the unsettling silence, hitting a pitch in his mind forcing him to his knees. You watch from across the hall, the shadows curled comfortably around you.

He can't see you. He can't see anything, Fists curled to white knuckles, pressed into his eyes. The sound of his ragged breathing and grinding teeth echoes in the small room, punctuating his personal pain.

"Dad?" Your voice is hoarse, Scratching even more so on the sensitive walls of his mind.  
He draws a deep breath, forcing himself from the bare floorboards.  
Calm before the storm.  
"Roxas? I haven't seen you in a while". His back is turned to you, but it's nothing strange. He's always had his back to you.  
There's no annoyance, only uncomfortable indifference in his voice. It's a statement, not a question. You nod in acknowledgement.  
Try not to speak Roxas, You know he hates it when you remind him you're alive.

"I heard you were out down the alleys. The other day, Story goes, you were all friendly with one of the locals."  
The implications he makes are painted with a horrific sneer, and although you can't see it, it's laced through every word.  
You're frozen rigid with the inevitable words poised on the tip of his tongue. 

"Who was she?" he spins around to fix you with a bloodshot stare. The frustration creeps back up his throat and he makes no effort to disguise it.  
This is the man you live with. This is your father. He's half of you. And you hate him for it. 

"She's just a friend" you whisper the words to your trainers. Your heart is painfully thumping in the back of your head, your vision is swimming. You can almost make out the faint cracking of his knuckles as he prepares himself to take a swing.  
The air is hot and heavy, every action emphasised by the accompanying silence.  
He stops. A loud sigh.  
Open your eyes, Roxas. 

"Why can't you be more like your brother ...". There's a hesitant pause at the end of his comment, You can almost hear the mental turmoil he's enduring as he tries to say your name.  
Your own anger returns, burning behind you eyes with such force, the pain he can inflict is nothing in comparison to the pain throbbing in your head. 

"More like my brother? You mean dead?" he freezes, but your regret seems to be suffering a delayed reaction.  
"You know if I could trade you up, I would". He's already prepared this fight in his mind; he's already practised it with you for years. You want nothing to do with each other, but the tragedies you suffered bind you. 

"Kid, The alleys? Don't you learn anything? Those people... Your mother was one'of'em," he says it with resignation. She traded up, she got out of this hole, And away from this man.  
And to think she started out where melody is trapped now.  
Not all these people from the streets are bad, and not all these people from happy families and smiling photos are good. 

"She had the right idea. I don't blame her for leaving".  
He pauses in false thoughtfulness. Head cocked toward the ceiling, searching the decaying ceiling for a snappy response.  
"I dunno kid, why don't you do us both a favour and try it out for yourself. We both know you'll be back here in a few hours with your tail between your legs."  
He gave you the option Roxas, get out, and keep your fists in your pockets. 

The house seems to shake in it's foundations as you slam the door shut, while he, on the other side, buries nails in the peeling frame, growling low in his throat. 

"Why couldn't you have left? You're just killing time here until you can join brother in his grave"  
the words sound to sinister coming from such a young mouth.


	4. Dirty Plastic

You slowly navigate your way through this lost city, Fingernails tearing into your forearms in a painful gesture of self-comfort.

The buildings lining the torn up tarmac grow increasingly dilapidated. By a doorway a young girl stands, Dressed in clear plastic and purple. The smoke from her cigarette rises up and frames ocean blue eyes, staring back at you suspiciously. By her feet rests a bundle of dying flowers, petals strewn about the cracked concrete. She's standing by a city grave. Pray it's not your brothers.

You finally reach a familiar corner, a graffitied backdrop of flowers and demands of "stop the fighting".

Melody isn't here.

A young girls stands, awkward limbs bent at ridiculous angles. Her back is pressed against the names of the dead, Carved into the concrete.

She's laughing, an annoyingly high pitched sound, Unnatural and evidently feigned. A nearby street light illuminates her teeth in an otherwise shadowed face.

A taller figure looms over her, a delicate hand resting against the concrete by her head. It's hunched and awkward, standing with the weight of the world on its shoulders. It's speaking, but only a low growl reaches your ears, before her loud, shrieking laugh pierces the comfort in your mind his low tone has created.

She gingerly brushes fingertips against his chest, curling the drawstrings of his hoodie between frail, hesitant fingertips. Her head is tilted, Gazing up at him, Lips parted and eyes half-lidded. The street light emphasising her features but leaving his in darkness.

There's an electricity in the air, Heavy and uncomfortable, Singeing the hairs on the back of your neck.

He steps back, straightening to a towering height.

"Axel," She shrieks his name in what you assume to be an attempt at innocence, But he neglects to look at her.

He pulls a cigarette from above his ear, chewing the filter between grinding teeth.

You can almost hear his frustration. You wonder if the young girl is oblivious, or just stupid.

"Smoking can kill you ya'know" she offers, placing hands on jagged hips, taking the stance of a mother scolding a child. Their height difference in the situation is ridiculous.

"And you don't think these streets can?" he mumbles, voice obscured by the cigarette clenched between his lips.

She taps her foot before throwing her hands to the sky in an over dramatic gesture of exhaustion.

"Well you never exactly fight for survival, Do you?" she wonder allowed, Voice soft, Barely carrying through the thick evening air to reach you.

He's visibly rigid, hastily lighting his cigarette, the flame momentarily lighting his features before dying to darkness.

In that split second you catch his features beneath his hood. His face is drawn into a frown, Brows pinched and eyes rimmed with life's consequences.

The colour of his eyes startles you. An impossible toxic green, Angry and uneasy.

The boy from the café.

"And this is what you call this?" he snarls, an outstretched hand sweeping generally over the scene, her eyes follow the movement obediently, before she catches sight of you. Her eyes light up in something relative to panic, before they turn back to her lanky tormenter.

"This is your fight for survival?" he snorts, satisfied with his observations. She hangs her head.

"I'll see you around kid," he offers, patting her head much like the way a parent praises their child.

This girl deserves no praise you grudgingly admit to yourself.

What has she done that's worth remembering? What have you done?

Your thoughts flicker to your brother and his sacrifice for bringing peace to a city that long ago forgot the meaning.

The tall boy slinks away to a distance before the young girl turns to you, her face painted in a rage you don't understand, Her features twisted in frustration.

"Do you have ANY IDEA?" She demands in an angry whisper, throwing cautious glances in the direction he disappeared, "What he could have done if he found you lurkin' around here?" He eyes are heavy on you; Hands have once again navigated to her hips, Fingers drumming a silent tune on her figure-hugging dress.

You're at a loss for words. You shake your head, "no", and once again she releases a sigh mixed with exhaustion and relief.

She fails to elaborate why café boy might want you dead.

Right now, you think you might agree with him.

"Whaddya want kid?" she questions in a softer tone, running trembling fingers through wine coloured hair. Her eyes still dart frantically about, Nervous reactions to natural occurrences.

"I'm looking for someone" your voice is solid and level, it's sharp and authoritative. It's foreign.

Her movement stops, she peels the fingers from her hair before fixing you with an intense gaze. Her eyes look lavender in the dying light.

"Who?" Her tone suggests you don't know the answer to the question, and maybe you don't, you just want something familiar, someone to listen.

The moment of silence stretches forever.

"Doesn't matter" you mumble to no one in particular.

Take your leave Roxas. Find someone who cares.

"Brother". You address him formally as you kneel by his rotten gravestone, tracing your fingers through the harsh cracks in the concrete, enjoying the contact of something that can't react. He doesn't respond, and for some reason, you find yourself a little annoyed with his unwillingness to speak with you.

He's not reluctant Roxas, He's dead.

You sigh, not prepared to discuss your argument with your father, Unwilling to talk about your life, something your brother has been deprived of.

You still hold you grudges against him, and you're aware you'll take them to your own grave. He's silent and stubborn. Uninterested.

"Dad still hates me," you offer, forcing a laugh realising how wrong the words sound combined together. You're his son, And he hates you for it.

You trace his name in the cold stone with unsteady fingers, And in a way, you're relieved it's his name carved there, and not yours.

You wouldn't want your father to have the satisfaction of knowing you're dead

"How do you two know each other?"

You respond without question. "He's my brother" and you scare yourself with the lack of sympathy in your voice. You were only bonded by blood, nothing more. Friendship seems to foreign between you now.

"I'm sorry".

You're reactions have dulled down to a slow movement And your minds screaming warnings have been smothered by you're tangled emotions.

Who the hell are you talking to Roxas?

You spin 'round, Almost losing your balance. Eyes locked with the acid colour gazing down at you. His head is cocked to the side, studying you with humoured interest. Red strands spill across his chest, leaking like blood from the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low across his face.

He's grinning, A twisted, Sad sneer. You suddenly feel like you're intruding on his conversation with your brother.

You stand up, Dusting yourself off, not once taking your eyes from him. He makes no move, just watches your movements. A cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth.

"Who're you?" you demand. You're voice sounds bitter; you briefly wonder where the innocence of your youth escaped to.

Probably buried six feet beneath you, nestled snugly with your brother.

He shrugs, Uncaring, Inconsiderate. His expression is strained, Like he's tried for too long to keep it from showing his emotions.

"You can call me Axel kid". His voice is low and scratchy, His accent nasally. His consequences suffered as a result of his constant attachment to a cigarette.

He drags his eyes from you; they rest fondly on the gravestone.

He looks like he's suffered a death in his lifetime. He looks like he himself as suffered death. The black rings around his hazy eyes telling you a different story to what his confidence would have you believe.

"What're you doin' here?" Your own eyes settle on the parting message on the grave. You're no longer nervous by this looming stranger, the boy from the café. He's suffering too much to hurt you.

"Comin' to visit a friend, much like yourself. Saw you here, Thought maybe you could use the company."

A heavy silence forms between you, and although it's constricting your mind, Axel doesn't seem to notice it, His eyes distant, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Bet he was a good guy" he finally offers, Eyes still fixed dreamily on the headstone.

"He was". And although you hate to admit, you feel as though you've just told a lie. Axel doesn't seem phased by your solemn response.

"Most of these people died in the fighting" he explains, unnecessarily. His toxic eyes sweep over the harsh landscape of crucifixes and dead flowers.

The conversation feels painfully strained to you, but this strange boy fails to notice, Eyes unfocused and lips fixed in a small smile.

"It's a sad story" you find yourself offering in a timid voice. The minutes are stretching on for days. Axel finally turns acid to gaze at you.

"I guess we wrote it that way", His smile drains from his face as the harsh realisation in his words. His hands fumble with the zipper on his sweatshirt, He knaws on his lower lip. This boy has his own story. His lips move soundlessly as he struggles to form words. His eyes scan the gravestone, rereading it for the umpteenth time, As if the name would change should he look away.

"We're running ourselves into the ground. But I guess people like you and me; we got left here for a reason." His voice isn't steady, His tone sounds as though he's trying more so to convince himself.

"I guess so" you agree, although you assume you're only speaking to remind him he's still in your reluctant company. He turns to you once again.

His eyes search your face for something you're unsure of how to display, and a smile creeps its way across his face. It's sinister and intimidating. And suddenly you're finding it hard to swallow.

"You've got really blue eyes kid. Reminds me of the beach".

You gently push fingers into the soft skin beneath your eye, Startled by his outburst of thought. Maybe he was only speaking to remind you he was there.

The comment unsettles you.

People used to tell you, you had your brothers' eyes.

You walk away slowly, leaving him hunched over your brother's gravestone, Reading the final words of another casualty of war.

Had you stayed in the smothering company, you would have heard the strange acid-eyed boys monologue with your brother.

"Seeya soon, Cloud" he offers, before flinging an unlit cigarette on the grave amongst the dead flowers and disintegrated paper.


	5. Heavy Haze

"Well, well, well, you've returned to me".  
He's too young to be granted so much power, the decisions he makes now, predicting the future of the pale golden girl before him. His voice is oozing with sarcasm, hardly covering his sadistic amusement and he bleeds alcohol from every pore.

He's strange, unusual in appearance, something rare and exotic among the brick work and burnt out buildings. His blue eyes to wide with the hopes and dreams of a generation too focused on self-destruction to see life pass them by. He's pale, unnaturally so, Trapped in his dilapidated hideout, Windows boarded by his suspicions and paranoia. Pink tinted hair hangs braided, framing his face so sharp and angular, too angry to be so young.

The girl shifts awkwardly, sparing him fleeting glances, Aware of what this man is capable of. He smiles broad and brilliant in return, inviting her to talk, and immediately she sees her mistake. She strutted up to his doorstep in all her fake glamour, assuming she could actually gather the nerve to manipulate this hazy-eyed teenager.

"Something's wrong" she explains, Brief, Blunt. She refuses to say more then deemed necessary, pursing glitter-stained lips, Gazing past the boy with the storm in his eyes. He raises a sculpted brow, Eyes half lidded, Breathing course between parted lips. There's a haze in the room forcing the air from her lungs.

"Wrong? How so?" he questions, the matter hardly peaking his interest. His accent is thick, each syllable heavy with alcohol. Winter-sky eyes slip gradually closed, His head tilts back towards the ceiling, the stress on his breathing puncturing the silence in the room.  
She can see each vein throbbing beneath the ivory flesh of his throat, in her frustration she understands the temptation to lean forward and bury manicured nails into the flawless flesh. She cautiously raises glossy nails to her mouth, clenching them between her teeth.  
He's not particularly waiting for an answer. He's not particularly interested.

"I saw him again" she offers, Hardly an explanation for her concern. The pink haired young man lazily opens one eye, dragging it heavily over her features. Her concern tugs at the corners of her mouth, the skin under her eyes.

"Saw who again?" he wonders allowed, Making ridiculously over exaggerated gestures with one hand, While adjusting himself into a more upright position. Thunderstorm eyes sweep over her again, and from this angle she can see the flushed skin of his face, the darkened eyelashes sweeping across sunken cheeks. Do I have your attention now?  
The maze of her mind leads her to another dead end where the words can't be found; frustrated she looks for another route.  
He always had a way with people. He reads her glossy aquamarine eyes, parting pink-stained lips slightly with focus.

"You're nightmares don't count," he says simply, Disregarding her issue with the brush of a delicate hand.

"NO!" she jumps, hesitates with the next words, coaxing them back behind her lips. He watches, Captivated by her nervous behaviour.

"Axel. I saw Axel again. He's back".  
The smile seeps from the young man's face, draining the pink flush with it. His movement stops, His drunken trembling stops.

"Axel you say?" He sounds suspicious, that familiar smugness creeps in. He had warned her before of the problems with a character as fiery as Axel's, that boy's stubbornness and passions baffled him, and it all seemed so misplaced. The corners of his mouth twist in a reluctant smile, He turns to the doll-like figure before him, "And is there anything in particular you can think I can do about that boy?" he grins, enjoying her awkward expression. Her dress is bundled between her thighs from her nervous folding of the material. Her Subconscious sickness.  
For the first time since the golden girl entered his hazy hell, the figure lurking in the shadows voices its thoughts.

"You wanna come back do you?" she spits angrily, Jolts of electricity in the air.  
The pink-haired boy flicks the long locks tangled about his shoulders, not turning to her, but addressing her over his shoulder, smiling all the while, Baring vicious teeth to the pretty little blonde girl.

"Larxene, Please". His voice crawls up her spine like some desperate insect.

"Can't you see our friend is having trouble?" The grin never falters. Her eyes grow wider as he draws closer, sliding through the strange haze in the room. He leans over her, Frail hands placed on thin hips with jutting bones and stretched skin.

"Where's your heart?" he asks again, the stench of alcohol burning her eyes. His voice is low, the crawling sensation multiplied.

"I would hardly call Axel trouble", She grunts from her bosses chair which she now occupies, cat like limbs stretched about his desk, Paperwork scattering to the floor.  
The boy drags a finger gently down his victims cheek, Mesmerized by her trembling eyes. It's larxene's angry snarling that reminds him, Keeps him focused. There's no doubt these two need each other to survive.

"I need to come back, Marluxia." the trembling girl whispers, His mouth parted only inches from hers, Capturing the words directly from her lips. He grins again, this time something familiar, something welcoming.

"I need protection" she offers, Whispering, Not wanting Larxene to see her as another weak link in an already rusted chain.  
Marluxia nods slowly, digesting her words, Storm raging in his eyes.  
He towers above her, at full height, contemplating the problems their new situations could create.

"I can't just protect you, I need you to work for me again," he suggests, the words are sleazy, the alcohol coiling around each vowel. He says it as an order, not a suggestion, and she knows by now how a power-hungry teenager's mind works.

"I'm sure working the streets has kept you well practiced in the art of taking your clothes off," Larxene offers from behind Marluxia's daunting figure. Her tone has relaxed, a bored yawn punctuating each sentence.  
Marluxia grins, Sadistic and cruel. He realises he's got another desperate girl at his disposal. Larxene's comment is seen as approval in his eyes. He doesn't consider that his golden haired doll has yet to respond.  
He knows what Axel can do. There should be places allocated specifically for protection from the flame-haired fighter.  
She needs this and he knows that.

"I suppose we can take you on," he drawls, reaching behind him awkwardly, splayed hands searching the desk, His eyes focused solely on you.  
Larxene's gaze remains glued on the paperwork clutched between her skeletal fingers,

"Yeah, Welcome back Sunshine".  
The little china doll finally finds the strength she's been desperately searching for throughout this whole uncomfortable encounter.

"It's Melody" she growls, All her previous frustration packed into her words.  
Larxene finally glances up from her paper, thrusting a bottle of amber liquid into Marluxia's over-eager hands. She smiles at Melody, A confident smile. It's as though she hadn't noticed her in the room until that moment.  
"Melody" she corrects herself, bowing her head in silent apology before returning to her papers, Smile still etched on her face.  
Welcome back Melody.


	6. Fire Damage

"I don't want her here".  
Marluxia's voice is low and dangerous, Addressing Larxene over tense shoulders. It's an angry demand, from a teenager strained to breaking. There are no questions, there are no possibilities. All other options quickly surpassed best-before dates as soon as she set glamorous red heels through his door. His statement is an order, not a suggestion. Larxene knows by now to keep her calm and collected exterior, Wear it like an encouraging smile. To speak would be suicide.  
Marluxia's pacing the door space, tattered runners hammering a monotonous beat on broken floorboards. Or just maybe that's her heart. His hands are white-knuckled, Tangled in his hair, Frustration pulling and tensing the minute wrinkles on his face.

"She's too much hassle. I don't want the authorities back here snooping around again Larxene".

"Why so suddenly?"

"Why is Axel back?"

"Why can't she find somewhere else to go?"

"Why did I let her?"  
Why do I do this?

The questions are spilling, bleeding from his gaping wound of a mouth, leaking through clenched teeth and curled lips. A rare crack in composure for the leader of an elite street team. Larxene squeezes her eyes shut, As if the action would bring about silence. She pretends not to notice her boss's sudden lack of composure. He's not particularly interested in her solutions, just finds comfort in knowing someone else knows his pressures.

Silence slowly creeps in on their detached little scene, its chilling fingers wrapping around his tongue and muting him effectively. Larxene shifts uneasily, a gentle reminder she's still waiting for something, an order, a revelation, a beating. Human contact would be nice. It becomes so forced after a while.

"Okay. Melody wants back into the club circuit ..." He tests the words, marking his points with boney fingers. Larxene nods obediently from across the room, watching with vague amusement as the usual face of the operation makes his plans. People normally don't suspect her as the brains behind such power. "Partners in crime" Axel had once called them, "How can I muscle in on that?" She recalls the memory, the vacant look in his eyes as they broke off a jittery relationship for the final time before Axel took his leave. Axel had always been an interesting toy to play with, Glittery eyes, polished words and a raw fuck. These things aren't meant to last.

"Why would Axel be back 'Round?" Marluxia wanders aloud, Composure seeping back into his voice, Fingers coiling in loose locks of hair. Larxene, Torn from her thoughts, Barely recalls the topic of conversation.

"I don't understand why you see him as a threat" she mumbles, Fingers curled into tight fists on the decaying wood of his make shift desk.  
Marluxia for the first time since Melody left almost an hour ago, Drags his eyes from something she can't see, and rests them heavily on her hunched figure. Level, Hard, Unfeeling. Familiar. She hadn't been looking for a lover when she first encountered Marluxia, She had needed a co-worker.

"It's not me who sees him as the threat; dear ..." He turns ghostly eyes heavenwards in the dimly lit room, feigned thoughtfulness.

"And that's where the problem arises." He laughs a short, Brutal sound, Larxene remains silent, the joke lost on her. Of course she's aware there may be no joke at all, just some street nuts sadistic pleasure. He doesn't explain, Happy to rush into his memories, the look on his face distant, Lips moving rapidly, Running him through the years.  
Forever later, He glances briefly up at Larxene, Conscious that she hasn't made a casual cutting comment since thought took over. She's watching him, sparkling blue eyes watching him closely, measuring his reactions, awaiting him to finish his inner musings so perhaps he can share them with her.

"It's Melody," He concludes simply, grinning painfully at the blonde sprawled across his desk.

"Excuse me?" she drawls, Uninterested in talking about the little blonde girl from earlier. Her voice is low, Sends eerie shock waves across his skin, Low in his stomach. He'd never admit it, But Larxene is still dangerous. How easily she could kill him, how obediently she doesn't.  
Murder gets you nothing but trouble in these situations.

"Melody's the one who sees him as a threat," he states, Matter-of-factly, Watching the dawning of realization spreading across her face with smug satisfaction.

"That's why she came here, Marluxia. Have you been asleep for the last while?" she snarls, leaning across the desk, nails digging sharply into the wood; irritated by the way he speaks to her. Annoyed she doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about. Frustrated he's so sure of himself on the matter. Angry she's still stuck here.

"As long as Axel's still street crawling, She's goin' to live under my roof, Just for a bit of protection, That, Let's face it, She's not really goin' to get," He smiles to himself, As though this is a revelation in itself. Larxene's mouth pulls slowly into an evil grin, realizing that just maybe, Marluxia made a point without her help. Not something so re-assuring. She watches his lips closely, certain there's more, focused on the words he's holding onto.

"The only thing keepin' her indoors is-"he looks to Larxene, Smirking with as much encouragement as he can muster, Confident she can draw her own conclusions.

"Axel," She responds, Firmly, Confidence in her voice breaking a smile on Marluxia's face. Her inner torment is back, Playing like a violent movie through glazed over blue eyes.

He knows of the relationship Larxene once struggled to maintain with Axel. As she suffered, He suffered, seeing someone so strong with such a chilling power harnessed behind a polite, vacant smile. Axel had never been well-known for his monogamy, And Larxene paid for the flame-haired boy's infidelities with her patience and her sanity. She spat his name like she tasted him all over again, her cold turkey recovery thrown to the ditches.

There's a comfortable silence, He watches the eerie and drastic expressions control and contort her face, before she manages to snatch at shreds of composure, glancing up at him with a bone-chilling determination in her eyes.

"So To get rid of Girly … We gotta bump off Axel?" She concludes, speaking slowly, disbelieving her own words. Her eyes rooted to his, Unsure of herself, But so confident all the same. The revenge for her battered womanly feelings on a man who had none whatsoever. Her grin spreads like a sickness across her features, and he watches the developments with a painful churning in his stomach. Her confidence outweighs his concerns over the situation, the obvious problems of trying to take on a notorious fighter and to then stage an accidental death. People like Axel aren't familiar with the word accident, Despite it being the only word he's ever heard since the day he was born.

"Focus," He utters, tapping fingers thoughtfully across his jaw bone, studying the ceiling as he struggles to form the words to convince Larxene that although Axel may have his own interesting chapters, He's not the antagonist in this story.

"Getting rid of Axel is goin' to take a lot of work, and there's no way we can safely isolate Axel from that gang of his without having one of them tag along regardless."

Larxene rolls her eyes, Annoyed at these problems that seem to constantly arise. To drive Axel to death has been some sick fantasy of hers ever since she met him. How many times had she pressed cold metal to his throat while he slept and then blamed it on his carelessness the next morning. Her over eagerness to destroy her past could jeopardise the delicate situation, but her hatred is blinding.

"I want Melody out; she's as bad as he is. People need to know where their loyalties lie. She'd turn on us in a heartbeat if she thought she could get anything out of it".

Larxene nods slowly, recalling the time Melody had spent under their care in the past. She was so young then, frail, pasty skinned. Ill. An instant success with anyone who bothered stopping to notice. She was reserved, silent. She spoke with those awkwardly blue eyes, occasionally smiling. Her confidence grew to ridiculous heights as she stormed the stage.

"..But then again, Axel has his own reasons, Honest and heartfelt as he seems to think they are, Perhaps ..." And his words trail into a desperate silence, Larxene struggles to compose herself, Seeing his silence as an opportunity to defend Axel's life, Although she can't seem to find any reason to.

"Perhaps … Maybe we could organise a meeting. In the club. And with dearest Melody returning to us, the entertainment is in supply", Crystal eyes closely measure Larxene's reaction. She parts glossed lips slowly, ready to reply, although her eyes painfully scan the air for a response. Marluxia enjoys watching the torment slip over her carefully created mask, A flicker of intense emotion, difficult to label, Flashes behind her eyes, Before they rest once more on him, Followed by a slow nod of approval.

"There's no doubt we can count on his little friends making a not-so-surprise appearance," he slurs, Eyes once again resting on the ceiling, Empty bottle clutched between willowy fingers as he stumbles and stalks around the room.

Larxene can sense his determination, He can already taste Axel's blood, and she can read his expression as easily as the graves of her friends, littering the city.

"Who do we get to do the job?" she whispers, Anxious, Fingers knotted together nervously, Hands bundled between her thighs.

His evil smirk contorts into something sadistic, grinning daringly at her. She dreads his next words, almost hearing her name spilling from thin lips. The taunting twist in his voice sending shivers up her spine.

"Oh Larxene, You don't think I'd set you up against the beloved Ex, Do you?"

A barely noticeable shake to her head.

"No Dearest, Our little Melody has more talent than her table dancing".


	7. Coffee Fever

You're sick. You head throbbing painfully, Eyes aching in their sockets. Your fingers pressed harshly into your temples don't seem to be helping. Your body is burning, your limbs protest to move. A fever perhaps. Your thoughts are jumbled, the confusion drowned out by your laboured breathing. You soon realise that this fever is probably a result of kneeling in the wet dirt of your brother's grave, and blame quickly falls on him. Even from the grave he proves troublesome.

You silently study your reflection in the black coffee set in front of you. Dark eyes stare back at you, Lips parted slightly, Eyebrows knotted, Trying to focus through the sickness. You briefly wonder whether your temperature is higher then the "you" in the cup. The steam is rising up, curling around you, and caressing your cheeks, spreading a pink flush across them. You had forgotten how much heat irritated you. Right now, you can't think of anywhere better to be, other than face pressed into the cool earth of the grave. Shoving the cup aside with trembling hands, you listen closely for any signs of life upstairs. Before realising the man you call father has long since surrendered his ability to care for his remaining son.

The streets are deserted today. The rain hits the tarmac with the force of bullets, and the ringing in your head increases tenfold. It marks your skin, Pale white has become raw red and blotchy. You can't find it in yourself to regret not bringing your hoodie. The street has been stolen of its colour, usually present in the form of PVC dresses and scarlet lipstick.  
Keep your head down kid, you're still a stranger.  
There's voices from the distance, Distorted by the hammering rain. It sounds like an argument, a shrill voice ringing out and echoing off the empty buildings. You keep walking, Eyes rooted to the cracked concrete. You don't want to be just another unmarked grave.

There are a few people littering the grave yard, Silhouettes lined up against the angry grey sky. This rain is your sorrow. This rain is your tears. You stand before your brother, your face expressing nothing. A natural reaction.

"I'm not well today. I thought I'd take a walk" you speak aloud to the stone marker. An ancient woman nearby pauses in her thoughts to glance at you, A smile of pity forms on her face, Before silent prayers tumble from her lips at rapid pace.  
You're too focused on getting an answer to notice her display of sympathy.  
Cloud doesn't answer you. He never does. An annoying habit he carried on from his life to his grave.

"It's your fault you know," You accuse, Sounding every bit as young as you look.

You sigh; you can hardly hear it through the dull throbbing in your mind. With his silence comes the reluctant admittance that you have no one. And not even that can bring a tear to your eye. You have been left standing alone, just like the little boy from the photo, A few feet away from everyone else. You hang your head, although you can't say shame has influenced the movement. You're exhausted, you can feel everything. The grinding of bones with movement, the painfully loud pumping of blood. You can feel your pulse, And briefly wonder, Can Cloud? You rest a calloused hand on the cold stone, leaning forward slightly, Heart racing to catch your breath. You notice the hunched old woman is purposefully ignoring your illness, her eyes turned the opposite direction, staring off into the distance. She can pray, and pity, but when she is called to involvement, she shies away. You close your eyes against the explosive pain, and rest your fingers on your temple once more. The skin is clammy, Moist, Hot to touch. And for the first time in your life, you want to go home. There's not comfort here. There's no comfort there. The deciding factor being the rain.

"You okay kid?" Eyes dart frantically, recognising the indifferent, grating voice immediately.

"Axel?" You croak, Eyes bleary, struggling to focus. In all the blurred darkness, you see his blood red hair, And Glittering toxic eyes, studying you with something relative to concern. His grin slides effortless across his face as you recognise him.

"Have you no home to go to?" There's a smile in his voice. He's teasing you, kicking you when you're down.  
You shake your head, the movement sending your vision spinning, you stagger, and He snatches your wrist with a trained hand. You can't say it steadies you, But his touch is calming.

"What's wrong Short stuff? You don't look so good" he questions, Head cocked in the fashion of a dog. He rests his other hand on your forehead, peeling the blonde strands from clammy skin. The action is soothing. His hand is cool, His hand is hard. An accurate portrayal of the man it belongs to. You haven't been touched in so long. Close your eyes and make it last.

"Jesus kid, you're on fire. I gotta take you home".

You shake your head violently, Eyes still closed to the repercussions. Take a deep breath and order your words. You only have one shot to convince him, Home is not where the health is. After the concern he's shown you, you can't handle the idea of returning to your father. You'd rather stay by the gravestones, With Axel's hand pressed against your face.

"Father won't care," you struggle, Lips rigid around the words. You can vaguely see Axel shake his head.

"Your daddy troubles are nothing to do with me Blondie. You gotta go somewhere for help," he speaks to the sky, Face scrunched in thought. He releases the tight grip on your wrist, and you immediately miss the warmth. He runs long, Delicate fingers through the red locks, Pasted to his head from the rain. He's talking to himself. Lips moving rapidly in the silence of communication, But the noise distorted by the roaring rain. Close your eyes and rest in his touch again.

You listen to the sounds of the rain. Beating against Cloud's grave. There's no rhythm, just the desperate desire to crumble the stone. Water was always so dangerous in its own way.

"I've got an idea kiddo," he says softly, cautiously after a while, leaning close to your face. You can practically smell the sex of his breath. His green eyes sweep over your features, Locking onto your hazy blue orbs and nodding slowly.

"But you gotta promise this don't become a popular topic of conversation".

You're desperate, and you're deaf to whatever he's just said. You're still dizzy from the contact. You nod you head, Eyes closed, Falling limp against him. He struggles to catch you, Hands fumbling with your arms, before he throws your arms over his shoulder. The obvious height difference making this awkward and painful. He's all sharp edges and jagged angles.

"Where are we goin'?" you ask, Sounding heavily under the influence. You hate to sound weak, but right now you can't manage much else. Axel snorts in amusement.

"Just droppin' by to see an ol' friend of mine" he answers cheerily, He's not looking at you, And for some reason, that makes you nervous.

"You have friends?" you offer weakly, your voice echoing painfully in your head. Shut your eyes, Shut your mouth. Let him carry you.  
He laughs again; it's an energetic laugh, full and fake. You're so dizzy and ill; you miss his blunt and quick response of, "You have no idea".


	8. Fairytales And Immaturity

"You alright pintsize?" you hear him ask, His voice sounds like it's screaming at you through layers of concrete. He's so strained and so distant, But you can feel his breath on your ear. His hand is a comfortable weight on your hip, rubbing slow and deliberate circles with the tip of his thumb, tracing the pattern onto your bare skin, As much as a comfort to him as it is to you. Your eyelids feel like lead, your eyelashes tiny weights, pulling them down to your cheeks. Your words are garbled, leaking from your mouth in a flurry, Energetic bursts of vocal rubbish. He laughs and it's his laugh that gives him away. Your words may struggle for order, but your mind is working overtime in its fevered state.

Axel is cool, calm, collected. He's spent years building up that general aura of disinterest, but every time he laughs it's tinged with pain, it's regretful, it's guilty. Not even he can tinge something as innocent and pure as laughter with false impressions and intimidating frowns.

You struggle to crane your neck and gaze up at him through heavy lashes. He's focused, determined on reaching his destination with you conscious or not. He's not looking at you; acid green is fixed in your surroundings, guarding you from the city life. Struggling along with this heated human contact is enough to guard you. His jaw is angular, as sharp as his words. The pale skin of his neck is dabbled with poppy bruises, someone else's lips. Deep purple rings circle his throat, and you briefly wonder who tied the animal up so tight.

"You still kicking kiddo?" And the ridiculous nicknames become an endless list.

"He called me Rox" you mutter angrily. And it takes moments for your own words to catch up to you. Rox seems so natural in these situations. Rox is a special privilege, and the street mongrel jumps on the offer, repeating your name, tasting it on his tongue.

"Rox eh? You gonna make it, 'Cause I don't particularly wanna carry yah" he grins, Revealing more teeth than necessary. You nod slowly, tightening the limp grip you have on his shoulder. Don't let me go just yet.

"Nearly there" he offers, tensing slightly at your tightening grip. You close your eyes. Take me away.

---

"Hey, Anyone around?" He calls, Close to your ear, the vibrations along your skin forcing you to open your eyes to the bleary world surrounding. You're standing before a decaying ruin of a building, this strange boy supporting your weight. You don't know where you are, and you don't know this boy, you hardly know yourself.  
He mutters under his breath, His voice skimming across the skin of your throat, He's leaning low over your shoulder, like he has something to say. Words fail both of you in these situations.

There's a painful silence choking the streets, and the buildings seem closer than they were moments ago. Axel's breathing punctuates your rapidly beating heart and that sense of panic and dread swells in your throat. Swallowing becomes a ridiculous effort. You grip his shirt tightly, Knuckles white around the torn fabric, and the small, slow comforting circles start tracing along your hip.

"Axel?" a voice rings out, Bouncing off the cold concrete surroundings, Multiplied over and over again in your foggy head. A voice without a body. You look to Axel for a reaction and a grin creeps slowly across his pointed features. His hand retreats back to his pocket, and you're once again standing on your own.

"Axel you little bastard, You fuck off for days and-"

A figure makes it way out of a shadowed doorway filled with graffiti declarations of love and flowers for the people who fell here. And you're shocked into sturdiness. What a strange collection of people. Very recognisable, yet they blend in with the concrete crowd. An invisible circus. This new boy, Stand towering over Axel, Leering down at him with all the intentions of intimidation, And you have no idea how he closed in on Axel so fast. You must be woozier than you thought. Axel grins back up at him, skimming his tongue along his lips, with all the worst intentions in mind. His expression is so readable. Two people stolen directly from an abstract painting and placed in these mundane surroundings.

The new boy, He looks like he's fought his battles since before he could fight. His face is scared, shimmering pink scar tissue lines his face, and an eye patch hastily pulled over one eye. His hair pulled back from his face, trailing down his back. Hardly regulation for a street fighter. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and you can see the temptation in his eyes. He wants what you want. To reach out and touch Axel, Trail nails deep in his face, feel something human and at the same time, sever it.

"Dude, this isn't a recruiting agency... Who's the Barbie?" he asks, and his voice sounds outrageously young. He gestures vaguely in your direction; Pointing at you through is pockets. Axel sneers, But doesn't look away, Tilting forward, Almost brushing against this war torn boy.

"You can't have him" he says, Low and sinister, A growl creeping into his tone. Green eyes dart your directions before settling back on the giant.

"Rox?" Axel calls you, Once again not breaking the electricity between himself and the new guy.

"This is Xigbar. Try avoid him".  
You nod slowly, knowing well he can't see you. But the warning was issued, and you sense a sick sort of concern in his voice. He's only warning you to tease Xigbar.

"The master in?" he asks sarcastically, finally stepping back from the increasingly frustrated beast before him. The Axel disinterest is back again, a well-practised role. Xigbar silently fumes, glaring the red head down with his one visible eye, Fists clearly bunched up in the folds of his jacket. The master?

"Of course he is Axel. He knew you were comin'. He went out of his way to be here, Yau'know the world revolves around you" Xigbar replies, Slowly, As if ensuring Axel understood the ridiculously obvious sarcastic tone in his voice. Acid green flares toxic momentarily before he turns to you, smiling sickly sweetly. He nods his head in the direction of the darkened doorway, and you follow obediently like a good little bitch in the wrong part of town.

Xigbar is left, Ragged with rage, Huddled in the cold by the doorway. Axel is more than happy to escape the tension. You don't bother discussing what just happened, and the unmistakable tension in the air. Axel's jaw is set, His brow pulled into a frown, the blood hued hair in contrast with the ivory skin emphasising his sickness, framing his eyes like red paint. There is no cure for sex and violence. Axel's working towards the unreachable.

He leads you through silent corridors. Deserted. Inside is just like outside, The boards nailed to the windows letting only small beams of light through, Spread across the floors like searchlights, All of which Axel avoids with a natural grace and practise. The doors hang limply from the door frames, some rooms' house barely conscious men, Street soldiers with all intentions of fighting to the death. They stare drearily at you, And you realise, your colours most be a rare site in these parts of town. He pauses reluctantly before a door with peeling paint and hushed voices spilling out from underneath it.

He throws you a weak attempt at an apologetic look before tapping gently on the door. A few flakes flutter to the floor, and you remember the letters regarding your brother's death. It's telling you to go in. Keep going.

"Who is it?" snarls a voice, Vicious and intimidating without even a face to match. You feel your muscle seize up, and your already dizzy head spins violently. Axel places his fingertips on your wrist, the touch lingering more than it should.

"Just don't answer him back" he whispers, and you've come to crave his voice across your cheeks.

"It's Axel" He addresses the caged animal behind the door, Acid eyes never leaving you.

There's a shuffling sound, and a voice to calm and sinister to belong to the first speaker addressed you. He's sneering, and you don't even have to see his face to understand his expression.

"Axel", it purrs, And it's disgustingly heavy on your skin, "Long time no see. Come in".

Your positive even Xigbar guarding the streets can hear Axel's sharp intake of breath, sucking it through his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut before flinging the door open.  
You meander in, slowly behind him, Occupying his shadow, and maybe you don have some things in common, But the shadow of someone like Axel is not exactly your idea of entertainment. Your trembling knuckles are not in the back of his jacket. You need the support. You need to feel the humanity.

Across the room, Seated on the window ledge, Peering through the gaps in the boards, Eager for freedom, Sits another of this mysterious invisible circus. He glares at you from the corner of angular, yellow hued eyes, His brow warped by frustration. His lips are twisted into something relative to a sneer, Revealing dangerous fangs. When he speaks, you can easily understand the connection between his character and his voice. It's frustrated, under pressure, Rushed like he feels the words are about to dry up.

"Axel? We're not a fucking boy's shelter" he growls, those glaring white teeth flashing, daring you to answer him back. So he's already seen you, although you didn't expect to hide for long behind Axel's willowy frame.

"Saix," the other voice speaks up, a strange tone of warning, or possession evident deep within.

"Let him introduce us to his new friend," The voice coils around you, touching your skin and spreading a blush that your fever is not responsible for.  
Axel straightens obediently beneath the pressure of this voice, And you realise he's a lot taller than you originally figured. He gestures vaguely to you, with clammy hands and uncomfortable words.

"This is Rox" he offers, and you watch as the panic spreads across his face, Along with the realisation he doesn't know your full name. Inside your laughing.

"Roxas" You step forward and your brain rewinds you to a moment, Axel warning you about keeping your tongue in check. Watch out for the wolf by the window. Your voice attracts his attention, and when he turns to you, He no longer looks like the lurching animal from moments ago. He's gathered his patience, and his smiling coyly at you, like he's hiding a brilliant secret about you behind those clenched teeth.

"Roxas?" His voice is still rough, But it's his tone to sparks your attention. He turns to face you and the words are momentarily stolen from your lips. A scar, Ragged, Crossed across his skin, dangerously emphasising his eyes, adding to his rugged frustration. Axel throws you a concerned glance.

"Unusual" the other voice speaks again, and this time your wits are playing with you, daring you to meet the figure by the corner with all the intimidation you can muster in your state. Your eyes can hold nothing more than your sickness and your voice can barely hold the same note. It's hard to sound indifferent and you wonder if maybe Axel practices this.  
The figure is tall, Elegant, Legs crossed, Head leaning on the palm of a frail looking hand, Brittle like a twig. Prematurely silver hair coils and gently curls around frail olive skin. Does this man suffer his own sickness?

"And why did you bring the little darling here Axel?" The silver haired man purrs, and you realise it's nothing to do with intimidation techniques; He has a natural ability to creep under your skin and make you itch.

You open your mouth to reply, but the words have died in your throat, taking your previous confidence with them. You can sense Axel's nervousness like an electric tension in the air. It bristles. You don't dare meet his eyes, the acid hue breaking you down. You eyes make contact with the floorboards, and there they stay until Axel can be heard, Stomping across them, A new sense of courage and determination. He finally remembers he brought you here for a reason. A hand rests on your shoulder. You get your warmth back.

"This kid is sick. I just thought that maybe we could take him in for a while? Yah'know?" He had started off on such a strong note, His words sounded like an order, a vital demand and not just a meek request to a superior. The silver haired man laughs, and your skin crawls.

"Axel, what have we told you before about thinking?" His laughing does nothing but irritate your fever. Axel looks as though someone's clawing inside his skull, His fists bunched tight by his sides. His mouth is set in a grim line, and already you see this situation has no great income. The Saix boy is the first to speak.

"Out of the question Axel". There's no room for argument, but Axel seems eager to run against his own warnings, disregarding his own advice, Stepping up to the storm. He leans forward, all attempts to make himself look bigger, not just an easy target to a man with insane frustration in his eyes.

"Why not? We've done it before, I mean, Sure-"

"No Axel."  
The silver haired man looks intrigued, spinning slightly on his chair, studying the decisions of his partner, watching as though he can see the wheels turning in his mind. He taps his chin, trying to decide whether or not he should interfere, or just let the script run out. You silently beg him to shut Axel up. He pointedly ignores you.

"Out of anyone, this guy has reasons to be-"

"I said no, Axel". Saix is standing now, Sharp fingernails dug into the wooden window frame, Strange tinted hair wild, hanging free about his shoulders. The other man nods his head in silent confirmation of his private thoughts, But the actions attracts the attention of everyone present.

"It's a no Axel" the silver haired man agrees, smiling sadistically, watching your movements, Monitoring the distance between Axel and Saix from the corner of his eyes. You have the good grace to look disheartened.

Axel turns quickly, Red strands whipping violently about his face, He snarls angrily, "Xemnas", His voice is torn through clenched teeth.  
The silver haired man shakes his head once more in response, Eyes still carefully watching Saix, Weary of the animalistic man's presence.  
Axel splutters with partial words, Fists clenching and unclenching rapidly by his sides. Your head is spinning, your eyes once again heavy. You just want to leave, the force of Axel's unnecessary anger pushing behind your eyes. Axel we should go now. But the words never come to your lips. And they would never have reached Axel's ears. He's stormed out, pounding the walls in the hallways, snarling through his teeth. You're left, Rigid under the awkward gaze of Saix and Xemnas. Xemnas watching you, cold and calculating, Intrigued by your presence. Saix looks mildly concerned that your still here, Like he sees something in you he doesn't want to see. He's a rigid as you feel. You back away, Nervous by the examination.

---

"It's not like you to reject a potential play thing Saix. You insisted we take in Axel. And look how well that turned out" Xemnas grins, Interested by Saix's over the top reaction to Axel's simple request. And the flame-haired boy had made his point, they had taken in various street walkers over the years, Training them, using them, Toying with their heads, letting them think they were capable and them sending them out to fight to measure the opposing side. Saix shakes his head, Eyes still rooted to the spot the little blonde boy had stood in moments ago.

"I have my reasons for turning this punk away".


	9. Noinín I Measc Na Neantóg

"Strange of you to deny Axel anything" Xemnas purrs, Grinning, Amber eyes dragging lazily over the silhouette of Saix by the window.

"Any particular reason you turned him down?" He's aware he probably won't receive an answer, Put he forces it. Saix' reaction to pressure is entertainment at best. Saix is staring down the floorboards, shying away from the blinding light cutting through the boarded windows. He holds the wall up with one shoulder, while he balances the weight of the world on the other. He parts his lips to speak occasionally, but he's battling with the words for some sense of order inside his mind. His face is pulled into a sinister frown; Eyes squeezed shut tight with the effort of dealing with a past that never quite left.

"You saw that boy," he growls.

Xemnas realised upon taking Saix under his wing, the boys temper had outrageous heights, an angry violence attached, and his respect for other people still lurked in the gutters. This animalistic snarl of his wasn't a defensive mechanism. It was Saix. Angry and raw. This boy has suffered, but walked away with his pride intact, And rough angles and raw X's carved into his face.

Xemnas remains silent, Watching Saix' facial expressions melt and mould. It alternates. A rainbow of awkwardness. He can identify Saix' inner anguish, and his reluctance to discuss the topic at hand. But a lot of those tormented expressions go unrecognised or unaccounted for.

He can't begin to understand the effect their latest visitor has had on the rampaging animal. A little blond boy, Meek and silent, cowering behind Axel. He remembers, but he doesn't see why he should. He was a short kid, Skinny, Wearing a strange ashen hue on his face, Blue eyes bleary and fading. Axel always had a fascination with life, Bright colours and loud noises. Why has he taken such a determined fondness to the pastel coloured little boy? The little boy with no vocabulary of his own, But his name.  
Saix' breathing becomes heavy, And laboured. Claws curled into trembling fists by his thighs. His back is arched; And Xemnas recognises the beast he recruited all those years ago.

"Doesn't he remind you of anyone?" Saix question is forced through clenched teeth. His bloods pressure his rising, Taking Xemnas' anxiety along for the ride.  
He has the good grace to look mildly thoughtful before turning, amused, to face Saix once again.

"Can't say he does".

The tension in the room raises a few more notches, And Xemnas makes a point of standing up, Towering over Saix, Reminding him that he has fought and killed for his position, And is more than willing to kill one of his own should the need arise.

Saix digs nails into his scalp, angrily studying Xemnas' movement through golden eyes.

"I just don't want him here" he snarls, His voice low, Picking at the notches on Xemnas' spine.

His words, His tone, the total frustration evident in the words remind Xemnas of something. This situation, it's happened before. He's reminded of awkward situations, Blood and a murderous amount of tension. The words rock bottom spring to mind. He's said those words before, that exact phrase. He's quoting a younger, milder version of himself. And he racks his brain to remember when the necessity for Saix to voice personal opinions arose before.

He remembers a death, a wronged, confused little boy. A sense of mourning that weighed down on the gang. He remembers the force at which the blame hit him. 'You killed him' and 'its people like you who'd waste such young life'. The only voice he heard in those days, Was Saix. The distraught boy he was back then, preferring to sit in silence and argue with his tears. The gang had begun to disband. Axel stayed. He stayed because he knew more of the ugly little story they'd written. He knew there was an alternative ending, and in typical Axel fashion, Stayed around to see if he could benefit from it. There was a name, on everyone's lips. A prodigy child from a young family.

"Cloud".

Saix glances up, all tension and strain on his face disappearing. He does well not to show his shock. The name sets of s a series of hard emotions in golden eyes.  
Those hard eyes rest on Xemnas, Silently urging him to continue. Daring him to voice his own thoughts.

"That boy, He looks like Cloud. I remember him," And Xemnas speaks with a faint fondness, a look of happy recollection on his face. He does remember Cloud. That boy was a daisy among the nettles. A pretty punctuation in street history. A little blonde kid, Taller than the one he's just seen, But skinny, Stormy eyes flashing with so much potential. A life cut short by an idiot with a temper.

"They're brothers". Saix is just speaking to keep himself from cracking. He's just stating fact, but it's a missing puzzle piece to Xemnas. So, Roxas, The little street urchin, is ... Was related to Cloud. And he wonders how he never made the connection, both which such honest, tormented sea blue eyes. He knows the effect Cloud's death had on Saix, like losing a brother. Like losing a lover. The topic was taboo. Saix' rage had to be contained. Saix had lost his best friend that day. He had been distraught, barely able to speak. And he had known all along. He had already seen these events taking place. Already saw the potential for a disaster, but did what he does best. He kept it all sealed up between clenched teeth and bruised lips. He blamed himself the disaster. Willingly took that blame and wore it with a saddened pride. After years of silent suffering, Coincidental how Axel would stumble upon the younger brother. Lead him back to them with eagerness and renewed willingness to help.

"I don't want to see Cloud back here". Saix practically whispers, Voice barely audible over the sounds of fighting and sirens, rampaging outside the window. And Xemnas understands. He sees Cloud in the boy, doesn't want to encourage another disaster like before. Saix doesn't want to lead Roxas up to the same fate he handed Cloud, Doesn't want to feel unfaithful to Cloud's memory by forcing his little brother through the same things.

He nods slowly, seeing this rare streak of humanity in Saix, Sobers his own thoughts, Makes him think, Makes him relate.  
Saix fear of getting attached to a memory is perfectly clear. He briefly wonders if maybe Axel already knew the relation between Roxas and Cloud, and brought the little boy back to them simply for a mindfuck.

"They aren't very alike" Xemnas offers slowly, Cautiously, Testing the waters and carefully measuring Saix for a response. Trying to convince him that the brothers aren't that alike, trying to find away around personal torment just to recruit a new member.

Saix shakes his head, a small smile creeping across his features, chilling in the rough light.

"You have no idea" he replies, Voice soft, all the animal drained from it. Instead there's fondness, a warm nostalgia.

Xemnas knows Saix has had connections with Roxas in the past, Knows they've probably already encountered, Wonders if Roxas recognised the prematurely aged creature before him. Saix and Cloud were close. They had a relationship no one dared look to deep into. Not until the other little punk strolled his way between the two, causing irreparable damage, All the while smiling sadistically, watching something he couldn't have, fall apart.

"We saw what happened pretty when we introduced it to the street fighting, let's not do it again" Saix pleads in his own, Indifferent, Toneless way. And Xemnas nods in agreement, seeing this whole situation from a new light. It's not about numbers, it's about life. The effect the death had on Saix was incredible, Hypnotising to watch. A man stuck in a rapid downward spiral.

"He's possibly a bit young. Looks a little ill", Xemnas concludes, opting to agree with Saix wishes, but doing it in a way where he didn't appear as weak as he felt at that moment.  
Saix nods silently, the fire in his eyes dying down to a dull spark.

In the silence of the room, the awkward medium created, from somewhere else among the stained hallways and collapsed roof, Axel snarls and snaps, Silenced only by a low toned mumbling.

And he knows that whatever relationship lies between Axel and the new boy, it'll bring nothing but ruin. Someone of Axel's position can't be allowed those human bonds, Can't be allowed contacts physically, emotionally, mentally. And Xemnas fears they may have already fucked up, Saix watching from the window before the two entered the building. A bored running commentary to their lives. He had watched the scene with growing displeasure in the pit of his stomach. Axel's arms slung around the little blonde boy, His lips lingering too close for too long to the kid's ear. The argument with Xigbar, Axel's frustration and lack of control in the face of a threat.

"If we loose Axel over this, so be it. But that kid is not joining us. I don't want a constant reminder of past mistakes" Saix grumbles, His tone low and warning, Eyes skimming over Xemnas.

"Funny how the guilty party isn't here to stand up to the blame" Xemnas says, Not particularly interested in the topic as hand, Preferring to watch Saix' reaction to the provocation.

"We have Axel to thank for that. Maybe he's worth holding onto a while longer".

------

**Wellity Wellity. Just thought i'd throw in the 'aul bitta irish, Since i spend enough of my time learnin' the bloody thing. So 'Noinín I Measc Na Neantóg' means 'Daisy among the Nettles'. Diddums. Oh . And i PRObably shoulda put this at the start, But i don't ACTUALLY own these chaps. I'm just usin' and abusin' right here!**


	10. The Center Of Your Universe

"I guess they really don't want me hanging around," you say, startling the silence. You haven't taken the time to consider your route through the decaying city, your eyes focused solely on Axel's strangely thoughtful expression. those dangerous eyes of his haven't settled on you since your encounter with his voice of reason, and your eyes dart to the white knuckled fists by his sides, longing for him to stroke you, or slug you.

You want to play with humanity again.

"Saix is hard to read," he reasons to his feet, hoping you'll catch the words before they shatter on the concrete. This encounter has his body lost and his mind wandering. At this moment he no longer maintains the ability to backtrack his words, the effort lost on him.

"That didn't seem hard to read," you mutter, reading and carefully measuring his face for some sort of reaction, a flare in horrifically toxic eyes. Nothing in his movement suggests his understanding. He keeps moving at his brisk pace, confident these buildings and concrete graves won't swallow him whole.

Your breath is heavy and pressing against your ribs. In this city of strange smoke and eerie quiet, the sound of your own heart panting and axels ragged struggle for air reminds you of the soundtrack to the movies you parents never let you watch, back when they cared. And the thought is so ridiculous; you laugh, a horrible helpless whelping sound, but effectively capture a jade-eyed stare.

Axel studies you, a genuine grin making a bashful appearance across his lips, his head tilted to the side, fingers tapping a beat on his hip echoing the racket your heart makes in your chest.

"Your one strange little boy," he concludes finally, still grinning and the warmth is enough to override the cold concrete surroundings and the eerie soundtrack of silence. When he laughs, it brings you painfully back down to earth, with the force of the slug you'd hoped for earlier. A laugh so innocent and young, it reminds you of this ugly story you've written yourself into.  
"They didn't like me very much," you whisper to him, a little lost in your own thoughts, watching the small puffs of steam your breath makes, Watching it mingle with Axel's as he stares of into a horizon of answers you can't seem to see.

He nods, Slowly, Reluctant to peel his eyes from the dying light, a thin golden line along the horizon. These streets transform under darkness, and suddenly you're desperate for that closeness to him.

You're tempted to reach out and touch your trembling fingers to his skin. Is he ice, or is he fire. Your mind is so distance and your thoughts so private, Axel's gentle nudge speeds your heart to a painful rate, hammering in your throat.

"C'mon Rox. Doubt you wanna be 'round here when the dead walk".

His comment chills you and you see now that this boy is ice. He's walking away, a practised strut. The girls crawl from the shadowy shelter of their doorways to silently swoon over the dash of colour among the black and white.

"The dead?" you wonder to yourself, not realising the words carry, as does the nervous concern they contain. Axel casts a world weary glance over his shoulder; the flickering street bulbs making him appear older. Envy coloured eyes rest on you, heavy with the vague concern Axel seems too accustomed to.

"You can't call this alive," he comments aloud, teeth gleaming in the dim light, hands gesturing to the shady street corners and darkened doorways. His voice echoes off the cement work, ringing twice as much in your head. The prying eyes of awkward silhouettes and strange shapes melt back into the scenery.

He's still walking, His outline blurred into the darkness. You stumble and trip, desperate to cling onto this faux sense of brotherhood he's created with a few rushed words.

"What are you then?" the question startles you in your own, choked tone, "Are you just somewhere in between?" You're still trotting to keep up to his pace, and you realise just how childish you must look, not that the worn away women and faded men could recall such childishness.

Axel's tone sinks a few notches, that fiery frustration is creeping back into his persona, and you can feel the flames flicker along the ridges in your spine.

"You figure I'm in between?" He's not pleased with your observations; He's not particularly pleased of your involvement in general. But the incidents that drive your life in circles sometimes interlink.

"I don't know what you have to do with Xemnas, but I assume it's nothing the innocent care to play with".

A sly grin slides across his lips, the anger harnessed for now. The smile isn't genuine, but it is an expression, a start.

"You can't tell me you've never fucked up kid. Because I know you have". He leans closer, whispering the words, Lips brushing against the shell of your ear. You feel your world cave in, the words knot your organs, and he knows. He fixes you with a smug smirk before turning on his heal to once more lead an obediently grovelling little you in his shadow.  
In those silent moments, you find yourself backtracking, frantically rewinding, fast forwarding the images of your life, searching each for flaws, Desperate to understand what he knows. You're not comfortable with what his knowledge could do to you. You draw a blank.

"Why do you do it, if you know it's a mistake?" mentally you're screaming for your mouth to stop moving, but the thoughts never seem to reach it on time. You clasp a hand tightly over your lips, for fear of more private questions slipping out. A continuous source of amusement to Axel.

"When your angry kid, you'll know. You look for someone who understands, someone you relate to" he pauses, racking his vocabulary for the proper words to explain his disjointed relationship to you; "I guess I found that in Xemnas". He says it regretfully, Voices the comment as a question, He's so unsure of himself now, that confidence is just a pretty mask he wears expertly.

There's a tension between you, He's thrown you a line, something private, something about the Axel before the disaster. The victim before the car crash. Your mind takes careful note of the strained conversation, but your mouth ignores the warnings.

"What happened?"

The silence creeps up once again as axel retreats back into private memories, reluctant to share with you anything he figures is of value. He stops and starts, Stutters and stumbles, and the breaths catch in his throat. He won't look at you, toxic eyes settle on studying the shadows.

"We've all lost people, Roxas. It's a war". He pauses, but you're unsure if his mind is genuinely turbulent, or whether he just prefers dramatic effect. His face tells you this hurts.

"Xemnas lost loved ones, His entire family. He was determined to find other people who understood. I guess that's when Saix stepped out of the woodwork. That guy has one helluva story to tell. Shame no one cares to listen" he says regretfully, fondly.

The words die there, and you've focused your concentration on your surroundings, although it's hard to keep your mind from trying to create images from the past. You understand Xemnas' position; See his desperation for the familiar. You have no doubt that Saix story is a tale worth reading, worth exploring, but in your mind, the blurred out words of Axel's history are what attracts you. You want to understand this strange, Hot and cold, Willowy figure, dragging itself through the streets with determination, a purpose.

"Do you think I upset him?" you ask quietly, seeing the strange sense of respect Axel has for Saix concerns you. Axel has the courtesy to snort, finally turning to face you with a grin so fake; it threatens to tear the tightened skin around his mouth.

"Who knows what goes on inside that crazy little mind of his, kid. Don't worry about it".

He turns from you before the rage in his eyes becomes clear, but you've already seen the beginning of the storm. You can see his displeasure, a raging red aura.

He's marching you to an area where the buildings thin out and nature finally regains control. You recognise the clearing, the familiarity of the area allows you the breath of relief you didn't realise you'd been holding.

The dark markers stand at intervals, Lonely and desolate in the darkness. You feel home, Reunited, And from the corner of tired eyes you see Axel lean awkwardly over an old crumbling grave, So familiar, It's almost replaced the position of the man whose death it marks.

"Cloud" you tell yourself, Watching Axel's face twinge at the name. He's tracing the carved letters with gentle fingers. He's brought you full circle, returned you to where he found you after realising he was of no help. Through all the foreign incidents of the day, you'd forgotten your sickness, but in the sombre silence of the graves, the heat waves catch you and your throat feels constricted. Before you fall to your knees, clutching your stomach in pain, you catch Axel's muttered confession to your dead brother.

"We broke up soon after that".


	11. Pretty Little Angel

Axel bids you a distracted farewell by your brother's grave, waving absent-mindedly as he wanders away into the strange light. Your feet carry you from the damp grass and forgotten stone; Drag you back into the streets, Mirroring Axel's footsteps. The buildings begin to sprout from the ground once more, Towering around you, effectively trapping you physically and mentally. Your mind struggles to place the conversation between you and Axel together, a jigsaw he's stolen the pieces to. How easily he steals not only your attention, He crawls inside your head and uproots your memories, and all with that fake, Painful grin.  
He'd mentioned anger, Emotions he experienced when he found himself someone else's victim. You struggle to see Axel label himself a victim in any situation. Even with Saix claws embedded in his throat, Axel would maintain 'til the very end he had provoked it purposely.  
Your mind creates thousands of situations, Conclusions, Epilogues to Axel's story, but none seem to fit properly, that's a jigsaw piece he holds right now. You wonder what's torn his dignity from him and forced him into the streets, trying to make friends with people who only consider relationships for money. It scares you how well he fits the scene.  
Your mind, In turn, strays to the setting in the dark, deteriorating little office from earlier, Saix perched by the window while Xemnas studies you with a stare that makes your skin burn. Your thoughts run to the brief history account Axel had given, Xemnas' past. You think of Axel. You think of Melody. And your eyes finally recognise where your feet have mindlessly led you. These buildings groan and grunt in the night, although you question whether it's the buildings, or their inhabitants. A fitting soundtrack to your life. Your eyes scan the scene, the shadows remain still. There's no one here. This is Melody's corner, this is her home, and this is her life. She's left it all behind, you included. You stand there, looking so small among the torn material and over turned trash cans.  
You call her name quietly, Raw from your throat. Any minute now she'll skip around the corner, Eyes bright and wide. She'll tell you you're weird, wonder why you don't speak a lot, and you'll just find comfort in the fact that someone knows your name.  
For now, you study her home. The graffiti seems brighter here. Spirals and happy scenes, Sunsets and numbers scratched out. You don't dwell on the numbers for long. Your sense of smell is overpowered by her cheap perfume, a pleasant surprise after you notice the strange stains decorating the tarmac.   
You reach your hand to reach out and touch her memories, but a voice stops you.  
"Hey, Blondie? Still lookin' for someone eh?"  
You spin to glare at the source, but your eyes soften when you see the maroon-haired young girl from what seems like another life story.  
You see no point in intimidating this girl; you've witnessed her flirt with Axel, A boy wound up to the skies with a dangerous violence in him. She knows how to play with fire and not get burned. You're just fakin' your way through.  
You nod slowly in response to your question, a pleasant and honest smile spreads across her glossy lips, her eyes strong lavender, carefully studying you and the damage you're capable of.  
"If it's Melody you're after, she hasn't been 'round in a while" she says, immediately losing interest in you, studying her nails and fluffing her hair. You watch her go through the motions, a bad movie on repeat. Once again it's a struggle to converse with the natural street life.  
"Where is she?"  
The young girl looks surprised that you've spoken, a shocked smirk worn expertly on her lips. She ponders the question, Lavender eyes rolled towards the sky. She steps closer, and the urge to back away be incredible. She holds out a dirty hand, Fingernails embedded with dirt.  
"I'm Kairi"  
Reluctantly, You reach out and finally attach yourself to this life. And she knows that, Snatching and gripping your trembling hand, carefully measuring your face the whole time.  
"Roxas".  
She nods slowly, seemingly a little shocked with your introduction. You raise an eyebrow, tightening your grip on her hand, reminding her you're still alive. And you're slightly alarmed by how much you find yourself doing that in these streets. This is the fast life, but you're content to sit back and stare at the stares and the smoke. Life forgets you.  
"You just remind me of someone" she utters eventually, Peeling her eyes away but leaving her hand resting in yours a while longer. She's holding onto that humanity you crave so much.  
She changes the hand, slipping her other hand into yours before you have a chance to withdraw it. She smiles innocently, Leads you away from what remains of Melody. She doesn't have to urge you. Your still a naive, Idiot little boy. And this human touch is more than you could ever ask for.  
You navigate the streets, holding a whores hand as if it's the most important thing in the world. She's thought to make you react this way. Strange shadows throw her green-eyed glares from the darkness. She clenches your hand tighter, and instinctively you clasp fingers, ensuring her you're still there.  
The flickering street lamps light your way, and these buildings begin to look familiar. These buildings are all the same, Always will be. You remind yourself to tune out, Let her lead you. She knows.  
The whispering, choked sound, screaming in the nightlife. Because of the silence between the two of you, these nocturnal noises assault your ears. You attempt to piece a conversation together.  
"Who do I remind you of?"  
She jumps a little, raising her head from your shoulder, the choking smell of herbal smoke finally drifting away from you.  
"Sorry?"  
"I said who do I remind you of? You said earlier ... I reminded you of someone".  
She gazes at you wide-eyed, momentarily halting your tracks. Tyres screech in the background.  
"You' know. I had a boyfriend. Looked awfully like you Blondie. But I guess war is generous with its tragedies."  
She doesn't seem that phased. But as Axel says, War brings death, and it didn't forget to visit this tragic young girl. Maybe she was a little rich-girl, Spoiled and smiling before she lost her lover. You bite your lip and convince yourself not to laugh.  
"What was his name?" You question, deliberately busying your mouth, trying not to laugh at the disaster you've collectively called life.  
"He was a good kid. A fucking gullible idiot. Fell straight into this war story. Never got to finish writing his own."  
"But his name?"  
"His name was Sora," and her grasp on your hand is wringing your knuckles. You found someone who's suffered like you, Axel found Xemnas, and you've found this strange little wine-haired prostitute with a tender touch and a genuine smile. Kairi. You warp an arm around her shoulder and pull her closer, soon enough the tears soak through to your skin.


	12. I'm All Ego, So Slap Me To Let Go

You stumble home late into the night. You watch the sky carefully, searching for the stars, but the city haze of street lamps and headlights blurs the night time sky. You make believe there's a star out there for you to wish on. Click your heels three times and beg to go home. Not your home, just a good one.

Kairi's company was comforting. She'd touch your hand, run frail fingers across the skin of your cheek, smiling the entire time, exposing the horrors and tragedies of the street fights through her own experience. She's suffered a rainbow of misfortunes, and you can't even begin to measure yours against them. But that smile she wears, brave and weak at the same time, racks you with guilt at your selfishness, and shame at your lack of appreciation for your half life.

She told you the story of her lover as though she'd rehearsed it a million and one times. Sora. The fascinating creature with vicious energy. The same traits that drove him to a premature end. He was strong, determined, although Kairi recalled his frequent lack in focus with a fond smile. She said he could smile through anything, claimed she doubted any other expression would suit his face. Said he smiled right up until that huge, homely heart of his gave up. Her smile slipped into her coffee at that point, and her silence was almost unbearable, the two of you drifting back into fond memories and happier times.

"He said we'd get married and run away", she scoffs at the idea now, but you could easily imagine the look of girlish joy spread across her face at the news.

"My very own fairytale ending". Her words break and hesitate as she retreats back into her mind.

"They never tell you what happens to snow white, or Cinderella, you'know, after they marry the prince and live happily ever after", She looks to you, wants your attention. Craves humanity.

"Who knows? Maybe prince charming meets a non-to-dignified end and poor Cinderella has to sell not only her, but those pretty glass slippers, just to make ends meet. Maybe she's still pretending to be alive."

You gaze up, this girls logic twisted and harsh. There's a glint of axel in her humour. Your blue eyes bleary with what you claimed was sleep deprivation, but you later admit was sad acceptance.

"Pretending to be alive?" you had asked eager to understand more of this cynical young woman.

"Pretending. Like me," she sighed, a little lost with the world.

Sora was another victim of merciless murder. He just happened to have the bingo numbers in the game of life that night. Kairi still regrets she hadn't been the one to find her lover face down in the sand on the beach. Beat cops had discovered the body while on patrol, carefully avoiding the twisted cement city. Newspapers had said he was shot execution style, an instant death. The victim hadn't known what hit him.

Kairi Figured Differently.

It was tragic to hear the account from someone who gradually became a victim of the system. You've touched it for real; you know it's there, not just something you can brush off.

Thinking about Sora dampened kairi's spirits, That beaming smile had gradually faded and flickered like a candle all night, finally quenched by admittance that she never told Sora how much she needed him.

"He would never have read that much into body language," she whispered, smiling sadly, shoving various tubes of makeup and stained notes into her purse. She takes her leave, wiping away at stray tears with her bruised and bloody knuckles.

You left for home soon after, ensuring to keep your eyes on the tarmac, weary of these street folk reading your innocence and your naivety. If they were to prey on it, they could own you.

The streets are shrouded with a thick veil of darkness, but there's bustling, a strange anticipation beneath it. A girl laughing, a shrill cutting noise, while a group of male voices joke and taunt each other, sporadically bursting into cheers.

You dare yourself to pay a return visit to melody's street shrine, your feet argue, and your mind insists it's not capable of dealing with another of the world-weary characters you seem to encounter frequently while searching for the blonde little china doll.

The headache you'd suffered this morning had become soothing nothingness with Axel's touch and friendly words, but now as you stand before your house, listening to the bottles clink from within, the ache returns full force, pounding behind your eyes, and you want nothing more the have axel breathing against your ear, telling you he'll sort it out. Pinching the bridge of your nose with one hand, shoving the heavy door open with the other, you almost dodge the angry fist aimed for your temple.

Almost.

---

"Hello boys".

She slinks into the room, not fazed by the number of eyes resting wearily on her. She smiles a grin bearing teeth and daring her former colleagues to provoke her. Each takes a cautious step back, flinching away as she draws closer. This place floods her with memories.

"Larxene, to what to us owe the pleasure?" Xemnas sits focused and determined, Rooted behind his makeshift desk. One hand lazily traces patterns in the film of dust coating the wood, while the other curls awkwardly to rest against his head. He watches her move under heavy lidded eyes; she coils around invisible objects, swinging her hips to a beat only she can hear, an exotic dance. He carefully scans eyes over the other occupants of the room, His own men, each wearing a vaguely unimpressed expression, Eyes tilted slightly to the ceiling. These people know Larxene to well to be fooled by her figure and her new gloss.

"Just here to deliver a message from Marluxia" she sneers, Seating herself on the desk, Frosty blue eyes taking in the details of a room she once knew well, Of the people she would have died for.

Xemnas hasn't changed, still frozen, Toneless, inconsiderate. She wonders why he and Marluxia hadn't gotten on so well together. All the common traits where there.

There's a presence, Lingering off to the side. An angry rage radiating from it, prickling her skin. She hadn't noticed the ominous shadow upon entering the room, but she figures it's a little to late to glance back and see who's standing beyond the shadows. She slides a hand slowly into her boot, Clutching for the dagger she had stashed earlier. The cold metal a comforting presence pressed against her palm.

"Never figured you'd let Marluxia be the dominant one," comes a familiar, taunting voice, sniping at her from the doorway.

Xigbar stands, Familiar and changed all at once. He's aged, Black hair streaked grey. She takes into account the short time she's been gone, quickly counting off the years and wondering how someone so young can look so old. His face still looks freshly damaged, shimmering pink scar tissue chasing circles around his dark skin. He's still fond of harsh words and cutting comments.

She vaguely wonders if he and Axel ever learned to co-operate.

"Actually, Xigbar, I thought I'd pay my old friends a visit. Don't you appreciate that?" She leans back, Spreading dainty hands across the dusty table top. There's a crunching sound, of paper crumpling. With the lightening speed that earned her a position here, she snatches the brittle, stained paper from the desktop and holds it up to one of the few beams of light struggling into the room.

It's a photograph; Taken once upon a time in a land closer than it ought to be. Her eyes quickly jump from one face to another, recognising these young faces in an old photograph. She sees herself. She's smiling, and managing to look almost innocent. Tracing her face with a painted fingernail, she wonders why she can't smile like that anymore, before noticing the larger hand, Clasped tightly around her own. Axel. That angry little boy stole her heart and her smile. She hasn't seen Axel for years. His infidelities and disillusioned talk of a happy relationship drove her closer to Marluxia. In a way, she can trace all her problems back to one raging source. Although she expects, with enough time, she could trace each and every natural disaster back to the flame haired fighter.

Marluxia and Xemnas stand side by side, but look impossibly distant from each other. Each with their different ideas of revolution and victory. Each wearing solemn expressions, and even back then, their eyes constantly rested on each other, Weary of the others actions. The beginning of an ugly divide in the history of street warfare.

A few more vaguely familiar faces, Xigbar, Vexen, Saix, Demyx. She briefly wonders where each disappeared to. It's been so long. Her eyes rest on another face, a blonde boy, another lanky teenager looking for a way to anywhere, but his name escapes her. His image creates a painful rage in her stomach, an angry regret and she can't seem to remember why he makes her so sick. Her memories draw a blank picture of white noise, Interrupted by a calm indifferent voice from the shadows of the office.

"What do you want Larxene?"

Her eyes snap up to the source of the harsh voice. Granite eyes and a placid expression. Once again the name is just beyond her reach, but the face remains. This kid, He hasn't changed much, still looks to young to be here, to young to be so hardened. A traitor. Marluxia had warmed to him, He was smart. Not people smart, or street smart, He was intelligent, A rarity among the uneducated of the streets. Marluxia had a depraved fascination with each word he said, desperation for facts, and obsession with knowing more. Despite everything Marluxia offered the pewter haired graduate, when time drove a wedge between him and Xemnas, The little stone boy chose the wrong side. She can't believe he's still working under Xemnas. She can't believe he's survived this long.

"Zexion. Still on a dead end road I see" she announces, Gesturing with graceful hands to Xemnas behind her, who wears an expression of mild amusement, Aware she can't see it.

Zexion doesn't react as though he's heard her. His dark hair has overgrown since the last time she's seen him, Combed over one eye awkwardly. The other is closed, Marking his silent frustration. And she smiles knowingly. Psychological warfare was never the kids' strong point.

"Has Marluxia sent you to offer a truce?" Xemnas drawls, Uninterested in her message since she strolled through his doorway.

"Actually, Dearest Xemnas, He's offering you an invitation."

Xemnas lazily parts his lips to respond, but the voice that answers isn't his. An amazing new talent he's acquired over the years.

"Invitation where?" it growls, Eyes glowing an amber warning in the shadows. For a moment the words catch in her throat and her breath hitches. That voice grates her nerves, Pressed on her lungs, and uncomfortable presence that gets under her skin. Unchanging, And unfortunately familiar. Saix.

"His club. Tomorrow night. I guess you could call it a lull in the fighting." She finishes quickly, not once removing her eyes from Saix' amber orbs flashing dangerously over Xemnas' shoulder. She plants hands on her hips, Mantra repeating in her mind, reminding, forcing her to look relaxed, Even though inside she's screaming.

She can't believe she agreed to come here and expose herself to this. Remembers now, Under Saix' heated gaze, Why leaving was such a relief. And after all this awkwardness and discomfort, she didn't once catch a glimpse of hazy lime eyes, her lover for a fee. He never once called her by the right name. She wonders if maybe Axel's already disappeared again.

She doesn't realise how long she's been enveloped in her thoughts of a blended past and future, Until Zexion coughs purposely, Drawing her attention to each pair of eyes resting on her, Waiting for more, or instructing her to get out.

"Thinking of rejoinin'?" Xigbar smirks from behind, Always a sucker for a girl with a few angles. He's offering her a route out, and probably doesn't even realise his ridiculous mistake. She can almost hear Saix teeth grinding from over her shoulder.

Glancing back once more, she maps out individual positions, Confident she can escape this building without anything lodged in her back, although she's aware Xemnas is probably still sore from metaphorical knife Marluxia wedged in his back all those years ago.

Xemnas remains at his desk, Eyes squeezed shut, Knotted fingers inching the bridge of his nose. A prematurely aged, young, old man.

Saix stands just behind, an obedient dog, snarling and raging, protecting his master, revealing his teeth in vicious warning.

Zexion watches, Just waits. Patience was an amazing characteristic the boy wore beautifully.

When she reaches the street, she's tempted to fall to her knees and kiss the concrete.

---

"What're yah gonna do?" Xigbar plants ugly, chewed up hands on his hips, tilting his head in amusement at a situation that's anything but. Xemnas hasn't bothered gracing his team with recognition, Choosing instead to keep his eyes squeezed shut tight, An attempt to fight of a dangerous headache, Ticking behind his eyes.

The silence isn't necessarily uncomfortable, just heavy. Xigbar just wants an opportunity to stop the silence.

"Larxene eh? It's been a while since that bird's been banging around here" he laughs, Aware that his comment may not have reached any of the overworked minds in the room.

Xemnas remains motionless, Unmoved, While Saix has retreated once more to the dusty ledge by the window, glaring through the sunlight and the wooden boards, studying the street below. Zexion lazily opens an eye.

"It's been a while since Axel's worked around without an alias. He managed to blend into the cement work for so long".

There's a silent agreement, Understanding.

Soon after the murder that became the prologue to a sad, violent story, the divide grew between the most elite street team to grace the scene. The polar opposites, who'd struggled together for so long, finally saw the opportunity to part. Marluxia spoke out, Fought, Flamboyant power, while Xemnas disappeared. He was no longer dealing with the death of a fellow gang member. He was struggling with the death of family.

Axel became just another name soon afterwards; No one could remember the face. He still worked, but not with the same passion. Something happened to draw him out, to help him overlook the disaster past he's survived. With his reappearance, He brought about more fighting. He knows, but would never admit. He's still claiming he's out to help a friend. Xemnas would shake his head, attempting to convince the headstrong inferno that it was no use, that his friend isn't coming back.

It was Cloud's murder that drove a wedge between Marluxia and Xemnas.

And Axel's still clutching at straws.

Saix assumes it's the appearance of the younger brother that fanned Axel's flames, renewed his angry desire to avenge Cloud.

"What if it's a trap?" Saix snarls, finally dragging himself away from mental photographs of his past.

Zexion shakes his head, the slightest movement; all eyes are instantly drawn to the small boy's burst of action.

"Marluxia's dangerous, but he's not stupid. Do you think he'd be idiotic enough to attack someone like Xemnas in a place so public?"

Xigbar can't understand the dark young man's reasoning.

"He might get one of his little weasels to do it. I recall Larxene being quite feisty" he jokes, emphasising the words and making Zexion's skin crawl.

"He won't. An attack on Xemnas in his territory would be bad enough, but in his own club would be a ridiculous move. He'd be pinned with the results straight away. He wouldn't risk his reputation like that." Saix' reasoning is logical, immediately silencing the potential verbal battle between little and big.

"Splitting after the death of a team mate is damage-"

"I'm going."

Xigbar's protest against Saix, A daring move in itself, is immediately overrun by Xemnas' own voice. Everyone turns to stare. His eyes are wide now, Hazy, Studying each of his men's expressions, not particularly interested in their opinions regarding his appearance at Marluxia's club.

"Xigbar, Saix," The two immediately straighten, Rigid, Obediently awaiting orders.

"You'll come with me. Xigbar, Keep yourself armed". The two nod, glancing briefly as Zexion, Wondering how he responds to rejection.

Xemnas opens his mouth, there's more, but the words pause for a moment, He tastes them carefully, Amused by the bored anticipation Saix wears.

"I want Axel there. He needs to deal with his demons. Larxene is demon enough to start with".

Saix has the grace to look startled.

"Walking in there, Axel's a target".

"Exactly Saix. If what Xigbar says is a possibility, With Axel there, Larxene's going to be too busy dealing with him to carry out her bosses orders".

Saix silently curses Cloud behind his fangs.

_ You stupid bastard. _

_This is all your fault. _

_I need you back._

_---_

**Sorry for this piss poor performance. I'm hella sick, Again, And i figure i'd get something good done. But A.D.D kicked in overdrive and it took me agesssss to right this! Seriously, Not cool. Wait, How do you actually spell performance, That doesn't look right. Proformance? Preformance? .. Yeah ... **_  
_


	13. Circuit Board City

"And how did it go?"

Marluxia is seated by the dusty windows, watching the darkening sky with a strange fear across his face.

"He said he'd go. But his little rookies weren't so eager to make an appearance." Larxene fidgets, Holds a womanly grudge against her superior for forcing her back into a past life. She can see the words ghost passed his lips, She's confident in his next question, So much so, That she answers before his voice can scratch at her insides.

"Things have changed," she mutters, trailing a jagged fingernail along the pale skin of her arm. Any distraction is welcome; to meet Marluxia's eyes now would be painful.  
She can't deny the overwhelming sense of loss she suffered upon re-entering Xemnas' decaying headquarters. A pain that ached in her chest, a hollow loneliness. Axel had always said she didn't have a heart. Clutching her chest, breathing laboured and shallow, she silently, reluctantly agreed with her memories.

She had been forced back into the arms of the family who never particularly wanted her. It was awkward, Uncomfortable, A painful experience in the most emotional sense. No surprise Marluxia had shied away from the opportunity to revisit his demons.

To see the boys again, Her boys, Watching her with hostile eyes and indifferent expressions, Each measuring her up, Not searching for injuries or wounds, Instead searching for weak points, Lapses in defence. She thanked her lucky stars Axel hadn't made an appearance. Xigbar, Zexion, Saix, Xemnas. They had all grown up, now wearing their experience on their faces with a reluctant sort of pride.

She still held the photo, Clutched between trembling fingers in her pocket. Even now as she stood before Marluxia, Facing questioning about what she'd rather forget, she thumbs the photograph carefully, struggling to remember the good times she shared with her former gang members.

"You're telling me Xemnas finally decided to do something productive?"

She remembers the deep scars between Marluxia and Xemnas. A history of violence and angry words in dark alleys. A great discomfort, Restlessness in the gang developed, and tensions grew to ridiculous heights. Marluxia and Xemnas' rocky road of a relationship had come to a head. They could no longer co-operate, and instead ran secret campaigns, attempting to win over as many of their fellow members as they could.

She recalls Saix, Always the observant watcher, silently absorbing his surroundings; He had begun searching the streets, Recruiting, Well aware that the group was falling into ugly little shards. The fact that Saix had taken his own course of action had disturbed the rest, Sensing that Saix' involvement was a cause for alarm regarding the future of their little street family.

"Not productive, No. Just, Different. They seem more, like a family now".

Demyx, The little blonde kid. She vaguely remembers him. More so his name than his appearance. That name was on everyone's lips, a cause for headaches and anger induced fits. Saix had seen a strange talent in the young boy, hastily adapting him into their black and white world. Demyx had been too young, achingly immature and too focused on making his own way in life to even consider the damage it caused his team mates. Saix was eventually forced to place the little loud mouth on some sort of suspension, confining the little wretch to Axel's watchful eyes.

"A family? Pathetic. Xemnas finally realising that he has absolutely no discipline over that little gang of ungrateful-"

"He's just fed up, Marluxia. He's done trying. Isn't that what you wanted?"

There had been a nervous sense of tension among the gang, an anticipation of disasters to come. A wariness that was too strong to bear. Relationships grew strained and words limited. Demyx' suspension was just another cause for concern.

Soon afterwards, Saix had introduced his new 'trainee'. She remembers him all to well. Cloud.

Saix had been eager to clue the Cloud kid on an assignment, and gradually shipped off Demyx' increasing workload on his very capable shoulders. Demyx was forced to work for his position. Things quickly spiralled out of control from that point.

The solid, bold writing that had chronicled the gangs history until then, Became scrawled and urgent, the ink blotched across the pages. Nothing was clear anymore.

"Do you think he suspects us? Do you think he's suspicious about his invite tomorrow night, Larxene"

"If he is, I don't think he particularly cares anymore. You'll see what I mean when you see him again".

---

Your sitting in the familiar little cafe, the torn vinyl seats and the lingering smell of cigarettes, Despite the countless 'no smoking' signs that have been hastily pinned to the walls. Despite the warnings, Axel sits across from you, Cigarette dangling from his pale lips, Eyes fixated on you, waiting for you to speak. Not totally unfamiliar, Words don't spring to mind.

"Well Rox. Xemnas assigned me to some sort of bodyguard crack tonight. Guess I won't be able to drop in to visit your brother".

You nod, Not particularly interested in his excuses, Just feeling a little more lost that he won't be there to support your mentally crumbling walls. He won't be there to hold your hand this time. In response your fingers twitch on the table top, daring you to reach across and snatch his own hand, Crush his knuckles together and smile all the while. You want to touch him, but you want yo hurt him. You can't understand why this boy fills your head with some many conflicting ideas.

"No hard feelings eh?"

You shake your head, before realising his gaze is fixed on the view from the window. The view from heaven he had called it.

"I don't think he'll mind," you mumble, Aware that Axel's attention span doesn't allow him to maintain a conversation for more than his own input into it.

"You don't have to go alone, Roxas".

You glance up, Alarmed by his glassy green gaze. The cigarette is pinched between his teeth; the smile looks awkward and forced.  
You open your mouth to remind him that all you have left lies six feet under the frozen earth, and the only way to touch it is to run your hands over the solid stone marker.  
He beats you to it.

"Come with me."

It's an order, not a request, and your heart is hammering in your chest and telling you to run, telling you to stay. You just sit their, looking every bit as much like a lost puppy as you feel. His eyes are flaring, a small smirk gracing his features. Maybe he feels he same as you. Maybe he wants to touch you, and hurt you and right now you long for that human connection.

"You saw how little Xemnas wants me around"

Your beaming with pride on the inside from your makeshift defence, and the more you mind runs over it, the more truthful you realise it is. Axel's silently raging.

"If I remember correctly, Short stuff, Xemnas wasn't totally opposed to the idea. That berserker fang face was. And technically, He's not the one who makes the rules."

"Axel, I'm not going. It'll just cause more hassle, and from what Xigbar said, you're in enough of it already. Why don't you just stay with your gang, Instead of disappearing for weeks on end and-"

"I have my own demons to deal with Roxas. I don't need you interfering, or them. I did have a life before I joined their little clan, and as much as they hate me admitting it, I still have one, and I intend to hold onto that for as long as I can. And if you, or anyone else, Is my only way of doing that, I'm not letting you go."

He says it with a practiced ease, like he's recited this warning before. He doesn't seem phased by the depth of his words; In fact, He hardly seems to notice, having retreated back to gazing indifferently from the windows, Acid eyes losing their danger. You sit there, in stunned silence, Dwelling on his words.

Axel, before the disaster.

Before the car crash.

You wonder what that pretty little picture of the past must have looked like. Axel doesn't seem like he's ever had a shred of innocence, Not gifted with decency either. His parents must be so proud. His parents must wonder where he is every day. They must wonder if he's still alive.

Looking at him now, you see it all clearly. He so lonely it's killing him and this attitude of his is just another skilled mask.

"Surely you can do this job by yourself."

"I'm so flattered".

"Axel, I want to help you, but I just don't think it'd be smart".

"Just... Come with me".

And the word is out before you can stop it.

"Alright".

------

The night arrives sooner than you would have liked, and you sit awkwardly before the mirror in the living room of your house, Fidgeting and tugging at your clothes. This feels so wrong, But Axel said dress down. The more skin the better.

Your father is pattering around upstairs, occasionally the sound of a bottle smashing echoes about the house.

You look pale, Clammy, and your breathing is heavy, your eyes unfocused. He'd given you a pill. Nothing serious he'd claimed, a small coloured tablet, pressed it into the palm of your hand and wrapped your knuckles around it. He'd smiled the whole time. Maybe this was his only way of touching you and hurting you, the touch wrapped around your knuckles, while the hurt wrapped as a tiny pill inside your fist.

Your shirt is ripped and stretched, Revealing pale skin painted over prominent ribs, and your concave stomach. Trembling fingers trail over the ridges of rib, and you find the action disturbingly sickening. You hadn't noticed any particular weight loss. Your pants are too tight, Bunched painfully around your crotch. Your awkwardly obvious boyhood to anyone who cares to notice. This feels like an outer body experience, this feels like a rented body.

He'd told you to meet him by Cloud's grave, to put something comforting and familiar between you.

Despite the fact you can hear the rain beat down against the tarmac, Hammering against the windows, Even over the sound of your fathers drunken ranting from upstairs, You neglect to snatch a coat before quietly stealing yourself from your house and the drunken stranger trapped upstairs.

The streets are lively tonight, A strange buzz, something interesting. Girls in plastic and glitter stumble through the streets, Arms wrapped around the shoulders of young boys with too much money to spend. But everyone seems to make their way in the same general direction. Tonight you're walking against the current, but no one seems to notice. Your strange clothes and damp appearance go unnoticed.

A girl with honey coloured hair and a warm smile brushes gently against your shoulder, laughing hysterically, Giggling and discussing 'Marluxia's club'. She nods an apology before returning to the masses in their migration.

The graveyard isn't that far off.

Axel's kneeling in the dirt by your brother's gravestone, and you watch his monologue from a distance. Their relationship still hasn't become an opened book just yet; Axel still wearily clings to a few of the pages, the happy ending.

He looks different, Out-of-character. You don't know what exactly it is Axel does for a living; although it's evident he's completely under the thumb of both Xemnas and Saix. He'd mentioned the position of bodyguard, But looking at him like this, Skeletal and hunched awkwardly, He doesn't much look like he'd have anywhere to take a bullet should the need arise. He's too weak to be much physical protection. He stops talking once he senses you hovering nearby, and towers to his full height, watching you with amused toxic eyes, glinting in the darkness.

"It's cold out kid, you didn't cover up" he says, Loud, Cocky, tugging his own coat tighter around his shoulders. His eyes are smouldering, stunning you into silence. Ringed in black, emphasising the nauseating green. His hair is styled elaborately, Spiked in more sharp angles, making him look harsher than you know him to be. He looks grown up. And that's possibly what creates the self-conscious nervousness in your mind. This guys pretty for a street thug, and he's made you all that more concerned for your own appearance. He strides to you, Mist swirling about his feet, before patting you roughly on the shoulder.

"Blondie boy cleans up well. You look like a whore".

"I'm sorry, I-"

"It's perfect".

---

"Why does Xemnas need you to play bodyguard?"

"Hey Kiddo, Inappropriate choice of words don't you think? Being bodyguard to Xemnas is anything but playing".

"Axel-"

"Listen blondielocks, tonight we're going to Marluxia's Club and it's not a smart decision, but it's Xemnas' decision, so it's official. There's bad blood between the two, so I'm just here as a distraction".

"A distraction?"

"Hey, Whoever's out for Xemnas, Has to go through my sorry ass first. And I may look a weed, but I can hold my own in a fight."

"What do you mean 'bad blood'?"

"Marluxia and Xemnas used to work on the same side, Rox. Partners in crime. When things on the street scene started getting worse, they couldn't agree on how to deal with it. Xemnas, He was just, You' know, Happy goin' at snails pace, Working slowly to sort it all out, But Marluxia, He just wanted the whole world in an instant, So they broke away from each other, Split our gang too."

"They split that much power just because they couldn't agree on something?"

"Trust me Barbie, There's more of a storyline to that little novel, but it goes a little too deep to uproot it now. All you gotta know, Is that Marluxia and Xemnas are on totally different pages, and tonight is not going to go so smoothly".

"I still don't believe this is all real".

"Trust me sunshine, there's a world outside your window. Tonight can be your first steps into it".

----

"Melody, Sweetheart, You ready?" Marluxia glides his way over to her cabinet, leaning against the mirror she stares into angrily. He watches turbulent eyes sweep over her reflection several times, before she smoothes her blonde hair with a paper thin hand and turns to him.

"I can't believe I'm back here" she snarls angrily, her voice low and threatening. He knows what she's capable of, Watches her hands, Wary of the damage they can inflict. Subconsciously, He flinches away from the girl who shrinks a few feet below him.

"You're good for business, the crowds love you," Larxene grumbles from her corner of the upstairs area. Usually she would be seated before the cracked old mirror, listening to Marluxia's outer monologue with vague interest. Tonight, Marluxia suggested a little role reversal, and she knows what that suggestion implies. Melody glares at her from the stuffed stool across the room, And Marluxia towers above the feisty little blonde with an angry protectiveness.

"Whatever" she grumbles, Turning to gaze through the second floor window, down onto the pulsating dance floor below. She crosses her arms and presses her head against the cool glass, Squeezing her eyes shut and fighting the urge to turn and tear the oblivious smirk from Marluxia's face, As well as to shred Melody's angelic little features with her manicured nails.

The lights glare and flash, the light even reaching behind her eyelids, and she slowly opens her eyes to observe the mini empire below her, the one she and Marluxia struggled to build for years, the one that little blonde is trying to sink glittering little fangs into.

The people are faceless, Just moving bodies, Sweating and curling around the atmosphere. As she stares, her mind wanders; these are the places she used to feel alive. Down on the dance floor, Surrounded by strangers, where no one cared what you did for a living, No one cared who you were as a person. All these people just wanted someone to hold. This dance floor of strangers and throbbing music was where she had met Axel. They had never spoken, Just desperate grinding and delirious grabbing and snatching, Tugging clothes and bruised lips. It was by chance Saix had hired the flame-haired emotional murderer, and introduced him to the group a few weeks later.

Her phone vibrates against her thigh, effectively stealing her attention from her other life.

The number reads Vexen, and the message is a perfectively phrased warning.

'Xemnas has just arrived. I've already seen Saix and suspect Xigbar may already have entrance to the premises. Send out the hurricane'

She sniggers against her will. Vexen had never liked Melody, Always at the girls throat, Eager to understand what went on in that eerie little mind of hers. He acted as a psychologist to her in a way, Taking notes on her behaviour, and coaching her manners. Vexen himself was a cold individual, a chilling presence, Unwilling to deal with the unimportant. He had always said Melody's eyes were like an angry sea during a storm. He'd taken to calling her Hurricane. And after the years they'd spent apart, the old habits hardly die.

"Xemnas is here," she calls out over her shoulder, Eyes returning to following the swaying bodies on the dance floor. She automatically scans the area for Xigbar, Aware Vexen had suspected the sharpshooter had already gained entrance to the building.

There's hushed whispering behind her, before the sound of the stool colliding with the ground, And Marluxia's exhausted sigh of, "She's more work than she's worth".  
Melody hates it here. That's something She shares with her. A common rage trapped inside these walls. She stands in the doorway, watching her two superiors, waiting for Marluxia to change his mind and give her life back. Hardly likely, But she's confident the stars are with her.

Staring out on the crowd, even through the blinding lights of flashing colours, Larxene sees a sight so familiar, it creates an ache low in her stomach.

Axel sits below her, Hunched over the bar, already absorbed in his alcohol, while various girls flit around him, and the barmaid fawns over him, eagerly watching him drink himself to oblivion.

"Melody? Who's Roxas?" she asks suddenly, Voice low enough to echo across the room.

Melody's breathing becomes less forced, less ragged, In fact, it seems to stop altogether. Larxene doesn't spin around, she knows she's hit a chord, and this reaction is what Marluxia needs to see.

The heartbeats in the room drag out until the tension becomes unbearable.

"Never heard of him", she sneers eventually, Glowing blue eyes daring Larxene to keep talking. Larxene's not looking; her eyes rest on her Ex-boyfriend drinking himself to an early grave. Had he not conditioned her to thinking she was heartless, she'd clutch at the aching pain in her chest.

"That little red-head slut down by your corner told me you and him were well acquainted."

Melody opens her mouth to talk, but settles for a deadly glare, Aware of Marluxia's lingering presence and his no doubt multiplying interest in the situation. As much as he harboured a soft spot for Melody, He loved to watch Larxene on her game.

"Said the little kids got a soft spot for you".

Marluxia's hums his amusement, Eyes darting back and forth between the two blond haired girls, one lurching like an animal in her corner, while the other ignores the approaching danger.

"I don't know this Roxas kid," Melody's jaw is set tight, and her teeth crunch together in the efforts to not verbally assault out at someone who holds as many cards as Larxene.

To insult her now, While under Marluxia's supervision, Could result in her once more fighting for a living on the streets, Spending a lifetime playing hide-and-seek with Axel. She's not willing to give it all up for this Roxas kid. Larxene knows that, so she keeps talking.

"That Kairi girl gave me a very accurate description of the kid. In fact, She said our very own little Axel informed her that this Roxas kid has ties to someone we used to know very well," She turns from the window, Eyeing Melody's hunched figure in the doorframe. She's not sure what she's saying, All she knows is, She's pulling at chords, Just wants a reaction from the little girl across the way. Melody was always so calm, Capable of dealing for herself, But with all the recent upsets to her life, Larxene figures she might as well through another in for good measure.

"Really?" she purrs, in professionally acted calm, Disbelief. She raises a sculpted eyebrow, hanging heavily to Larxene's words, occasionally throwing a desperate glance in Marluxia's direction. He's to absorbed in his reflection to notice your obvious discomfort. Larxene keeps pushing.

"A little shorter than you, Blonde hair, huge baby blues. She said he always looks sad. Poor kid lost his smile".

"And how do you know that's an accurate description?" Melody snarls. Snapping teeth and rage unlike any woman.

Larxene turns back to the window, planting her hand against the cool glass.

"Guess who Axel dragged in."

Melody can almost feel her heart stop, and yet, the pumping in her ears only gets louder. The pressure behind her eyes threatens to burst. Her mouth is dry; all the words she had stored in defence have evaporated. How did that kid get in?

Marluxia's making his way to the window now, Joining Larxene and making his best effort to follow the direction she points in with her finely polished finger. To him, these people are just moving shapes in the darkness; But Larxene's confidence is a guarantee that she's seen the two.

Melody, Unsure of how to react, Desperate for some sort of vocal recognition, Struggles to overcome the dry, sticky feeling in her mouth. The word sounds like it's ripped raw from her throat.

"Who?"

Larxene turns once more, a smirk creeping across her features. This aim is to kill. Melody's seen it before.

"Only Cloud Strife's little brother". The damage is done and Melody's jaw drops to the floor. A small world indeed. Her joints lock and freeze, And Larxene suddenly looks like she's regained her faith in humanity. Marluxia turns, a concentrated scowl on his face, Hands planted firmly on jagged hips, Glossy lips moving but no words reaching her ears.

"You really know how to put your foot in the door, Sugar" Larxene purrs, Victorious in watching her break.

Melody's inner turmoil stops her from selecting words out of her vocabulary, Instead, Marluxia is the force that pulls her back to earth, His words harsh and demanding.

"You're up. Don't fuck this up Melody". Melody nods slowly, backing slowly from the room, Eyes warily watching her two superiors, each plotting full throttle in their minds. The calculations written on their face. If she survives tonight, she's leaving this place. This town. How many times has she promised herself that before?

The door clicks loudly to signal her departure and Marluxia turns his fury on Larxene.

"Why didn't you tell me this?"

"Sorry, I just bumped into little red on my way back from Xemnas' today. Thought I'd pump her for answers, I've seen her and Axel together before. Turns out she actually remembers things."

"And you just thought because you need a one up on Melody that you'd withhold information from me?"

Larxene coughs, Awkward shuffling from foot to foot, Careful to avoid Marluxia's hazy gaze. She can small the alcohol off his breath, But that's not unusual.  
Her hesitation softens him, It's rare to see a girl with an electricity like Larxene', Silenced by discomfort.

"Small world. Cloud Strife's little brother climbs out of the woodwork and gets a crush on our own little Melody."

He's not asking her to confirm the situation. He's testing the words, tasting them, and forming ideas based around them.

"Larxene"

She stiffens, sensing an impending disaster.

"Melody's a distracting little stripper. Tonight you fucked up and you pay for it."

The sentences don't exactly make sense, and her breath hitches. Marluxia's got a sick mind, and she's confident that'll show in whatever he needs her to do.

"She'll distract the little brother, and you ..."

She squeezes her eyes shut tight, Hands curled into fists.

"You get to stick Axel up for execution."

Her whole world suddenly stops spinning.


	14. This Will Make You Love Again

These lights are flashes of memories. These strangers, ebbing and flowing through overcrowded corridors are the blood rushing through her body. The techno beat and heavy bass are the rhythm of her heart.

Try to tell that girl she belongs anywhere else. 

These seedy clubs and fantasies with strangers are her life. She can't let go.

Melody lingers side stage, fists curled in the shimmering silk curtain, half lidded blue eyes fixed on the genuine beauty dancing onstage.

That new girl, quiet, friendly, always willing to offer a smile while everyone else flinched away from such emotions. She can't recall her name right now, Confident that by her hesitation on stage, this girl has only just signed her life away. The dancers' fear spills freely from her pastel shaded eyes, the weight of her emotion drowning the anxious blonde side stage, while her awkwardness goes unnoticed by her audience.

"Aerith. The new girl," a voice calls from behind, twisted and harsh from years of tobacco abuse. Melody spins around, Eyes slowly focusing on the only constant fixture in this little corner of hell. Tifa stands, faux pride slathered all over her face, a convenient gloss to cover up a life of abuse. Her slender hands planted firmly on curved hips, Hazel coloured eyes lazily surveying the scene, slyly watching the youth onstage.

Tifa had been what Melody always wanted to be, the beautiful girl, carved from the grafittied concrete of the streets. The welcoming outstretched arms of a mother, but words so harsh and violent, they could make one bleed. Somewhere along the very jagged line, Tifa's life hit fast forward. She's aged. Not so passionate, Her beauty abandoning her, Reminding Melody of the common whores playing predator on the streets, Desperate for someone's 'I love you', cigarette hanging constantly from glossed lips.

"She needs to up her game. There's a big crowd out there tonight," Tifa says, smirking slightly, cruel and calculating stare watching the timid brunette, Aerith.

"Besides, she's got some fierce competition". That smirk stays plastered to her normally neutral features. Her eyes rest on melody now, a weary gaze, all the pressures of the world. Melody forces a small smile, the simplest action causing shooting pains in her skin, the butterflies in her stomach try their best to force their way out. Those butterflies are the only thing she's eaten in days.

Aerith's barely clothed, flowers braided kindly into the rope of hair that twists and twirls its way down her back. Her arms hang lifelessly by her sides, fingers motionless, and the idea of touching her own skin, cursed by the eyes of so many strangers, repulsive. Her pale green eyes dart frantically towards side stage, measuring and calculating a quick and swift escape. Tifa blocks her path, wearing a sadistic smirk so uncharacteristic for the woman she had been introduced to only hours before.

Death is not the end of the chain; it's just an unexpected kink.

Death forced Aerith off course, new decisions just waiting to be made.

She closes her eyes and tilts her head back to the ceiling, the unnatural heat numbing her senses. Beads of sweat trickle down her bare skin, and the feeling is so trashy, the experience so degrading, the urge to dig nails in and tear all the way to the unsoiled layers beneath is incredible.

"Cloud. I don't blame you."

---

The hurt and fear in her eyes is enough to turn your stomach, make you feel hollow, and helpless. You briefly wonder why so many come here, and pay hard-earned money, just to feel useless and empty. And people say you have a cynical outlook on life. No one notices, throwing flittering notes of cash at her like confetti, celebrating the fact it's not them reduced to bare skin and sad eyes.

Axel leans across the bar beside you, Neon lights illuminating his chilling features, His long pale throat, his pulse practically visible. Seeing something as private as his heart beat, this feels intimate, and you almost wish it was. You're like those middle-aged women with the cherry lips and greying hair, begging on the streets for affection, Cash as an added bonus. You look to the brunette onstage once more, and try to establish whether or not she is that much different to you.

Turning Back, your eyes wander, trailing down his body. He hisses through his teeth, acid green hidden away by sweeping lashes. He acts like he can feel. How you wish you knew. Your fingers tremble, Knotted together, fighting the urge to bruise his pale skin.

He's shirtless, a painful expanse of white on display, each rib a prominent ledge on his body. Shiny leather hangs low on sharp hips, His concave stomach attracting enough attention to make you squirm, and yet, this body to him is his pride. His whole body is a scar of an unfortunate past he'd rather not discuss. Literal body language.

The boy he speaks to behind the counter, you imagine he's a little older than you, Wears a grin that suggests you have a lot to learn about your accomplice for this evening. Silver hair cascades down his back, Hangs in his eyes. His continuous blinking grates your nerves. You watch the affectionate touches, and desperate glances he burdens Axel with. Your red-headed companion pretends not to notice, or pretends not to remember. There's a strange sort of tension you don't bother contemplating.

He drinks, and drinks, Eager to put his persistent friend behind the bar out of business. And you watch the process of self-destruction with more interest than you watch the display of human degradation onstage. You're surrounded by such heart-warming imagery, in the most despairing sense.

His lips are constantly curled around dirty glass, Beads of the green liquid leaving wet trails down his throat in his eagerness. He doesn't seem to notice the warning tremble that racks his hands. The music making him deaf, the alcohol leaving him blind.

The silver haired boy leans awkwardly across the bar, the strange electricity between them physically painful to anyone who cares to notice. Cups his scarred hands around Axel's ear, and from then on, His words are their little secret. The jealousy is overwhelming. Axel nods, toxic eyes fixed on you the whole time, unblinking, unmoving, unending, He runs his tongue along cracked lips, one hand trailing along his inner thigh. You watch the sight with increasing awkwardness, A desire to see Axel on his knees, Dragged down from his high horse. You're eager to see him throw his dignity away, that is until, a loud crash of sparkling glass collides and shatters on the opposite end of the bar. Axel quickly withdraws his hands, watching you watching him. The question easily visible on his face. 'What?'

Like you're the guilty one in this equation. 

He doesn't even have the common courtesy to look ashamed. Unstoppable, incredible pride.

The shimmering haired boy rolls his eyes, offering an apologetic shrug to Axel, Who's already lost interest, Retreating back to his collection of shot glasses littering the counters. Sighing, He glances along the bar, Eager to place his blame on an easy target, not so eager to lose his job. A wine-haired girl sits at the opposite end, grinning maliciously, waving with her fingers at the world weary boy serving. The section of counter before her is completely empty, all the bottles and glasses smashed about the floor. 

Kairi.

You watch him stomp around behind the counter, Navigating his way cautiously around various puddles on the tiles, you watch him reprimand Kairi, Yelling to be heard over the loud beat, smashing his fists onto the clear plastic of the bar, no doubt embedding the tiny shards of glass in his knuckles. Kairi sits, Barely phased by his blunt rage. She nods, and smiles, Eyes distant, not vaguely interested in what he has to say.

In the moments you wrap yourself in the miniature drama unfolding across the way, Axel's arms have found their way around various girls.

He leans casually against the bar, Bare back cut and bruised from the rough edges. A young girl clings from his lips, Desperate to be the sole focus of his affections. Her fingers dance frantically across his chest, Clinging and grasping, Searching for something to hold onto. It's not personal, it's wild, an encounter with a stranger to kick start a heart. Her choppy dark hair falls in her eyes, blocking your view of her expression. 

You just want to feel what she feels.

All that passion or just his lips. 

You shake your head, Ashamed, and survey the sea of sweating bodies. Her pleas become clearer, tearing at your ears even over the music. You roll your eyes to glare at Axel, Only to find him watching you. Green eyes flare dangerously, emotionally. Raw rage. His lips move with practised ease, while she sucks the life from his words. He pulls her closer to him, her grunt of satisfaction inaudible but crystal clear at the same time. Grinds his hips against hers, Measures your reaction, Eyes offer to let you join in. 

You glance back towards the stage, a busty woman, dignified graces in a place that normally deprives people of them. A hush falls over the crowd, a restless anticipation. From the corner of your eyes, you see the girl in Axel's arms fight to turn against him, Eager to see what spurred the silence. You smile, satisfied, to yourself.  
The woman on stage traces the crowd with deep hazel eyes lined in heavy make up. Her lips are pursed tight, Disapproval? Impatience? 

This woman has all the wrong characteristics to be standing where she does.  
She clicks her tongue and tilts her eyes to heaven, swaying her hips to a beat only she can hear.

"Let's face it boys and girls ...  
You're only here for one thing".

---

Saix grumbles inwardly at the display onstage. This dingy atmosphere of neon and sex is so typically Marluxia is almost makes him shudder. The dark haired woman commands the attention of the room, her own misfit circus, while they easily swallow every word she utters through those ruby lips.

He quickly surveys the room again, mentally mapping his men's positions. He struggles to see Xigbar above the commotion of the crowd, but chances the sharpshooter with the failing attitude is nearby, Ready to obey should the need for action arise. 

Xemnas sits in the V.I.P area, somewhere through the heavy crowd, behind him, in the company of strange men in business suits, Clutching briefcases like sad imitations of loved ones. Saix' orders had been well established, playing over in his mind like a mantra. He was not to make contact with Xemnas while in the presence of the clubs patrons. Xigbar was under similar orders. 

Separated from his voice of reason like that, Saix begins to feel the growing sensation of loss. His searching for Xigbar's familiar face becomes a little more frenzied.  
Xemnas had insisted he remain isolated throughout the night. And for once, Xemnas' words pull on the berserkers nerves, His teeth grinding painfully, Eyes narrowed dangerously. 

As an individual, He has a reputation to protect.

---  
Melody watches, Waits, Listens through Tifa's familiar speech. Her tone is bored, Hate filled, teasing her audience as punishment for their lifestyles. Hardly a punishment worth considering. They laugh, Joke, Enjoy her icy tones, Unaware that Tifa has never told a lie in her life. Never pretended, never struggled to fake. Those icy tones and short manners are exactly how she feels regarding the gathering nightlife. 

This isn't acting. 

These are real people. 

She's seen them come and go, Build up to break down.

Attachment is a deadly thing.

"The man up stairs brought you all a little present." she sneers, Gesturing with a wide sweep of delicate hands to the second story windows, Looking down over the dance floor. Marluxia's hunched shadow looms, surveying his kingdom.

Her hand continues the wide sweep, landing on the curtain. Melody's signal. Sad how an introduction is no longer a necessity, she's so common, so familiar to the people here, and that in itself is a sad story.

Tifa retreats into the shadows, the noise of her heels clacking against the stage easily covered by the shill screams and loud cheers of a crowd just supplied with a fresh batch of eye candy.

Melody takes a deep breath, Swallows her pride and a handful of coloured pills. Paints on her best smile and struts her way into the spot light. 

The searchlight. 

s.o.s.

The sounds is so shrill, as she hits the lights, it melts into one, her make shift white noise. She closes her eyes and mentally tries to order herself.

After all, Didn't Larxene say Roxas was in the crowd tonight?

----

You feel your heart stop, the desperate pumping cease suddenly. The breath dies in your throat, your grip tightens.

Melody?

You hear your name, Faint and distorted, Your vision of an angel suddenly blocked by glowing green eyes, Unfocused with alcohol, Cheeks pale with illness.

"Roxas? Hey buddy? You alright?" Knotted knuckles buried in your shoulders, He shakes you violently, Alcohol clouding his better judgement. And all the while he's laughing. There's the pain again, you're hurting, and he's laughing, holding you in your agony. You nod slowly, Regaining composure as the music starts up, Sleazy trip-hop.

"Jesus kid" he mutters, returning to his seat, not bothering sparing the stage a glance. Not interested in what the masses want. Typical Axel. 'This is my story. Not theirs.'  
In your efforts to not watch the pretty little girl destroy herself, you struggle to make a desperate attempt at conversation with Axel, Confident he'll keep your mind from her, your eyes from her.

"Where's your little girlfriend gone?" You yell in his ear, leaning close and breathing in his smell of sex and alcohol. You can't imagine Axel smelling any other way.

"Yuffie? We're not together" he shrugs, Unaffected by the intimate display he'd just taken part in. He mentions her name casually, as though their encounter was nothing more than a brief meeting on the street.

You raise a curious eyebrow, casting a desperate glance towards the stage. Melody sways, soaking in the spotlight, Eyes shut tight, lips parted. For once she looks vaguely relaxed; like she's confident her demons have given up the chase. The material of her dress is thin and see-through in the searing lights, but in this glare, her skin itself is almost transparent. The intimacy isn't in her clammy skin, it's the bones beneath.

Beside you, Axel knocks his collection of drained glasses to the tiles behind plastic counters in his hurry to support his head. You instantly scan the area for the silky haired bar man, who's quick to leave Kairi's company, Eager to offer his assistance. The reassuring words and ginger touches are enough to turn your stomach, as well as your eyes.

Axel's words are a little slower, A little sharper.

"Riku, You're not getting me drunk to get laid, Are you?"

Axel smiles a bleary-eyed smile, Weak and watery, Leaning further over the countertops, Burying his fists in the uniform shirt of the stunned bar man. Riku blinks wide, aqua eyes, whispering into Axel's ear at a distance so close, the majority of people seated by the bar hold their breath. His whispering is all heavy breath and grinding teeth. You know he's just fooling, Axel drunk on his social needs. But their closeness pulls at your insides, and you reluctantly fix your eyes once more on the stage.

---

Melody curls and twists, Contorts her body at ugly angles, Gliding through the cigarette smoke and sexual tension. Her hands trail across her chest, Ribs protruding painfully, nails tearing into her skin. She can see Xemnas from the stage and she's aware she's under strict orders to entertain tonight's special guest, But has already been warned to keep at a safe distance.

In the faint light cast over his face, she can read his expression perfectly. Boredom, Indifference, Maybe a slight hint of disapproval. She lets a rough moan tear from her throat in an effort to capture his wandering eyes. Her fans whistle and cheer, but he only fixes amber eyes on her figure, watching with an amused curiosity. She doesn't expect much, this man with the emotional capacity of stone. Unlikely to spark any sort of arousal in the figure of authority.

He's probably still getting his 'fill' from the insane blue-haired one.

Her own personal joke brings a sadistic smile creeping across her face, and this stage is her catwalk, and her body the latest fashion.

---

Your seething, Eyes burning with jealously. Almost as green as the acid in Axel's eyes. You watch her, this little doll, Strut across the stage, Eyes focused on only one person.

But not you.

And that's insult to injury.

You know who she's watching, Know who she's imagining. Axel had informed you, after skipping the entire queue with much protesting, upon entering the building, Where Xemnas' booth for the night would be located. And that booth is where her heat lies.

Your frustration is trembling in your fists. You glance angrily at Axel, Ready to accuse him, Blame him for bringing you here tonight. Ready to cry on him should he offer you a shoulder. But you're done with crying, buried your tears with your brother.

Axel lays, His face pressed against the cool plastic. Riku has once again disappeared into the thick veil of smoke, and his absence creates a welcomed sense of relief, not just within you, but as he took his leave, the occupants of the bar breathed a collective sigh of relief. The friction between Axel and Riku enough to make anyone's stomach tight. 

He's mumbling incoherently, watching you, Eyes twisted to look up at you, and you can't help the fond smile that breaks out across your lips. How professional he is, you're doing a better job than he could possibly manage. That anger flares again, how quickly Saix kicked you back onto the street, yet remained satisfied with a member as defective as Axel. Axel brushes bloody knuckles against the knee of your torn jeans, a weak effort to console you. He's not comfortable with the hurt on your face.

---

Larxene is forced to body swerve and use her shoulders, Desperate to get through the crowd in the small window of time she's being offered. People have no idea that she is, in a way, a patron to the club, People don't care. Like she knows so well, Occupation is irrelevant on the dance floor.

She silently prays Axel is still seated by the bar, Hopes his little blonde companion is still absorbed in Melody's self-destruction. A quick glance to the stage confirms Melody's presence.

A voice rings out over the music, Unstable with alcohol.

"Take it off".

Melody does well not to visibly freeze, those well oiled joints continuing their mesmerising motion. She's not so professional, but she knows well how to deal with these people. Drops to her hands and knees, Arches her back and crawls to the edge of the stage, the best direction she could identify the voice from. Snatches the face ofa young man, and kisses him with an aching fury, all her anger into something allegedly gentle. It doesn't last long, Blunt and bruising, effectively stunning her audience into a respectful silence. No one misses the blood glistening across her lips.

Larxene sneers, There's something for Axel's little pre-teen friend to fuck himself to.

Finally manoeuvring her way to the bar, reluctantly ignoring the wandering hands and vile requests. Axel sits hunched, closer to her; she can't see his new play toy behind his lanky frame.

She quickly adjusts her dress, Black vinyl sticking to her moist skin. She runs trembling fingers through slicked back blonde hair. Isn't this an ugly blast from the past? She's stepping back into her bumpy relationship history, hesitantly rests a hand on Axel's shoulder. The time it takes him to turn his head from the little blonde kid to face her is painful. So many times in those split seconds she dares herself to run. Womanly grudges glue her to the spot.

His eyes widen, His posture immediately straightens, Throws a cautious glance over his shoulder, Not so sure he wants his old blonde friend to meet his new one. Roxas is absorbed in the skin vision.

"Jesus, Larxene?" He heaves himself from the bar; not even taking the time to admire her appearance before placing rough hands on her hips, tugging her closer. Achingly familiar. She plants perfectly polished hands on the bare skin of his chest, Has to swallow hard and close her eyes to control herself.

"It's been a while, Axel," She purrs, an act perfected over the years, the monologue she had planned out for her reunion with her unfaithful Ex.

He doesn't give her a chance to fight. He never did. Never would. Axel was a sneaky bastard.  
Nuzzles her neck, Breathes heavy on her ear. Whispers dangerously close, "You know' I'd tell you I've been abstinent since you left, But I don't get the feeling you'd believe me".

His voice is low, Husky, Stronger then she remembers. Sets ablaze an uncomfortable heat between her thighs.

"Axel, Darling. There's only one thing you love more than yourself, and that's sex".

He smirks, a look not foreign on his face. Pulls back a little, to take in her expression, a strong fury he's never really seen in her before. She's rejuvenated. He wonders if maybe he is like a disease, or maybe she's just conditioned him into believing that over the years.

He pulls her close again, calloused hands pressed firmly into the small of her back, Taking great satisfaction in the girlish gasp that escapes. A lapse in a much matured defence system.

"And would I be pushing me luck to ask for some tonight?" he whispers huskily against the skin of her throat, Lips brushing against her skin. He has all the confidence in the world and it's that confidence that stops her immediately shooting him down.

Marluxia wasn't doing her any favours assigning her to Axel's case. He wasn't offering her an opportunity to work out her kinks under the raging red fighter. Her job was murder, Both to her, And to him.

She moans in response, stalling for time, reforming her plan of action, not expecting Axel to initially come on so strong.

"Prove to me you'd be worth the hassle," She responds, Head tilted towards the ceiling, Offering him more access to her neck, Hopeful that maybe he'll seize the opportunity to see her bleed, And kill her where she stands. If only his kisses were punctures, But then again, in a sense, they are. Each one another stab at her conscience.

Because hearts have nothing to do with sex.

He laughs, a throaty gasp in her ear, one of his hands quickly manoeuvring it between her thighs. This is more like the good ol' days. Blowing off assignments to go work out some tension with each other. This was going to be a harder job than she had anticipated. Pun intended.  
The gasps that escape her lips are no longer a dirty little act.

"Outside" she forces herself to speak, in a pitch higher than she would have liked. All her dangerous professionalism thrown out the window. She's at his mercy now.

Are the licks and the lips of temptation, Just tricks, not for playing? Do you fake it?  
If you bond with me, I could make your whole world sweet.  
I'm on my knees.

---

Melody's routine draws to a close, the reluctance in the audience as clear as the voices the yell with. Eager eyes scan the crowd, searching for common ground. Finally breaking the negative tension between herself and Xemnas. The relief makes her bones ache.

These shadows are all faceless, Melting and moving together. Reminds her, in a way, of the ocean.

She delays her exit offstage, ignoring a frustrated Tifa half hidden by tacky velvet curtains. Quickly, desperately searches the faces in the crowd. If she was to make her escape before Larxene could wrap up her own assignment, they'd both have to face Marluxia's dangerous wrath. And she is angrily aware, that in Marluxia's eyes, if she should cry gold, she still wouldn't measure up to the pedestal he's comfortably sat Larxene on.

She eventually sees the blonde haired nymph by the bar, Wrapped up in Axel's arms, Neck bent awkwardly back, laughing at the heavens. As if Axel is something to be proud of. She sees Roxas, Looking defeated, Saddened. It's a despairing blue aura he's always had, but now it radiates.

Her orders return to mind, pulsating like a mantra. Her inner turmoil plays out like a movie across her face. Her eyes darting frantically, From Tifa, to the lingering shadow of Marluxia by the windows. The shrill voices and cat-calls of the crowd tearing into her focus and disabling her problem solving abilities.

'Don't let Roxas interfere with Larxene's plans, but don't let Axel see you'.

She comes here for help, yet no one is willing to offer up encouragement.

She glances quickly at Xemnas, Who is once again absorbed in his own mind, Eyes distant and hazy. He shows no signs of acknowledging Axel's little escapades by the bar. A deciding factor.

She turns, Leaps offstage, Prepared to tear through the crowd to avoid Marluxia's sadistic punishments.

---

Saix' own senses are dimmed by the flashing neon and thick cigarette smoke. The show on stage boring him. How inappropriate of Marluxia. Are he and Xemnas not business colleagues, technically? And yet Marluxia sees fit to degrade Saix' own boss by reducing him to a meeting in this seedy hell-hole. Saix provokes his own rage. The deep breathing becomes a harder task, the smoke searing his insides. A cautious glance towards Xemnas' booth before his eyes once again come to settle on the strange little opera unfolding onstage. The blonde girl, Skeletal and Strong. Her eyes frantically dart from person to person, as if caught in the middle of an argument. She looks confused, Bewildered, A little out of her element. And he was under the impression all these street girls were hard as nails.

She turns to Xemnas, Measuring him, calculating something behind glimmering blue eyes, and it's an exchange Saix doesn't overlook. She's captured his attention, His eyes fixed curiously on her withering little frame.

Suddenly, a collective gasp, a sharp intake of breath, Tense shoulders and clenched fists, the little blonde leaps offstage, wading through the crowd, desperately searching for something. 

She is the white among the black. Her white dress, Ivory skin, Blonde hair, struggling through the melting and moulding darkened shadows of the nightlife.

The crowd moves, flinching away, Pushing forward, Eager to see what captured the dancers attention, Reluctant to admit it's not them. The music keeps blaring, Techno beats pumping in his ears. From his slightly raised position, He see her mouth move, Can't hear the words she's calling.

That pretty mouth will frame the phrases that'll drag this city to its knees.

Not even Saix' trained hearing can pick up on her desperate pleas. All he can do is sink back into himself, and watch with the same helplessness the rest of the audience have been reduced to.

Her hands reach out, grasping the air. She's fighting to reach the bar. Saix sneers, Alcoholism just another proud achievement to add to her list.

Quickly losing interest in the scene that captures so much attention, Saix once more resorts so checking on his superior, although something by the bar catches his attention. Axel, Enveloped in the arms of a woman whose features he cannot see. Her face buried in his throat, bleeding him dry, while he surveys the room for his next victim. It's not so unusual so see Axel's promiscuous nature on display, but for some reason, this scene looks familiar. The positions, the expressions, and the conflicting emotions attached. Axel digs his fingers into her scalp, roughly pulling her lips up to meet his own, Always a fan of violence. In the split second it takes her hazy aqua eyes to settle on Axel's lips, the alarm bells deafen Saix. She's pulling him towards the back doors Xigbar had informed him of earlier.

Larxene.

Strange how after painful years of emotional torment, She returns, Eager and willing to latch onto Axel once more, Despite his suspicious track record.

Unless of course. He had been misled.

There was never any danger for Xemnas. There was no threat. He wasn't going to die here tonight.

Axel was.

---

You watched Melody's human display with a tugging feeling in your heart. A pain in your lungs. Your organs felt under pressure, and your eyes stung with frustration. Your possessive nature takes control, and to see her chew up and spit out some stranger, Underlines and highlights exactly what I is she does for a living. A painful reminder. 

A kick in the teeth.

From the corner of your eye, you can see Axel, Finding a temporary drug in a face from his past. It's an intimacy you long for, although it's dangerous. There's a violent undertone to their desperate grasps and clashes of teeth. Her nails rake his back, and he finds his control with nails dug into her scalp, Ribbons of blonde tangled around his silver rings.

Glancing back towards the stage, your heart stops and sinks to see it empty. Another abandonment issue. Frantically searching the club from your position by the bar, you need Melody. It's only when you focus, you notice the eerie silence under the heavy music, the nervous shuffling and watchful eyes. The crowd parts close to you, And Melody's frantic face bursts from the dark shadows. Your gasp of surprise is the last air you can manage before she's there, Crushing her lips against yours, Pressing you into the bar.

It's rushed, and desperate, and harsh. Exactly how she leaves you feeling, and you relate. This is what you need.

The many eyes, the bursting jealousy, It's heavy on you, Makes you anxious, Nervous. But Melody doesn't react, why would she? You're confident this crowd have seen more of her than she'll expose to you tonight.

She groans, Frustrated against your lips, her jaw still working frantically. She's begging for attention, but for some reason, you can't drag your mind from your concerns about Axel. She's scraping at your bare skin with stubby nails, the other hand frantically struggling at your jeans. You can't understand why this feels so forced. This feigned love is the best you can hope for, And you deal, with your dry mouth and her vice grip between your thighs.

---

Axel tugs Larxene's mouth from his. The perfect jigsaw puzzle. She refuses to meet his eyes, fixated, Obsessed with his lips, Bruised and bleeding. 

His fetish rough and tumble. 

A poster child for Sadistic Personality Disorder. 

He grins, groaning for dramatic effect as her frail hand weasels its way under tight leather to his inner ache. She shuffles, Hand placed on his chest, guiding him towards the back door. And he knows. Suspicious of her actions, Confident he can take her. Oblivious to the amount of Alcohol in his system.

He places his rough hands on her forearms, with enough pressure to make prints. Something he'll pride himself on. Something he's always prided himself on. The rage overcomes the lust in her eyes as he stalls for time, but she plays along, desperately struggling to hold onto her sanity. Axel glances over his shoulder, yelling over the deafening beat, wondering how Roxas deals with this trashy grown up world they've managed to cultivate.

"Hey Roxas, Blondie Boy!" He calls to the ceiling, Voice slurred under the influence. His words are directed at no where in particular, although they reach the ears of the mismatched little family they make up.

Roxas hesitantly peels himself away from the frail, blonde little dancer. Eyes struggling to focus on Axel, The painted streaks of white and red. The haunting jade eyes.  
Roxas feels, more than hears, Melody inquiring as to who it is, her glossed lips brushing against the join of shoulder and neck. 

Before he can piece an answer together she glances up, her body suddenly rigid, her breathing suddenly ceased.

"Axel?"

"Fuckin' hell, Demyx?"

Suddenly Roxas feels like he's standing those few feet apart from the family in the photo again.

---

**Well. Now what do i do. Yah'know, I think i'm getting a black eye. Anyway, Half of this probably doesn't make any sense, But it's a-ok, Cause half the time i don't even know what the deuce i'm on about. So yeah, Any questions and i'll try answer 'em.**

**Yah'know, I think i might just go ahead and bump up the rating? I don't think it needs to be at all, But some people, Yah never know!**

**But cheers to everyone who's had anything to do with this story so far! **  



	15. Dead Disco

**This ones all short. Aww. Oh well. Goin' back to bed. Me throat is KILLIN' me! And i've a fekkin' concert tomorrow.**

**Maybe i should put in one of those 'i don't own any of these kingdom hearts guys' things. Just own the game, Which i finally finished. words can't express how much i hate Sora. What's he like? Killin' Demyx. Tch! I'll tell him what he can do with that keyblade!**

* * *

You can't understand what's just happened, Can't organise your thoughts with the sound of the music. The little blonde girls' grip tightens on your wrist.

What had Axel called her?

Axel stands, eyes wide open, an eerie sort of panic not familiar to his features. He's transfixed, and the girl clutching your arm is the source of such foreign emotions.

The blonde lady, Axel's latest venture, with the dangerous eyes, tugs and yanks his arm, and he does nothing but fall into step with her, obediently following her to the streets. A series of colours flutter behind his eyes, a shimmering blue, to a dangerous red. Axel wore rage so well.

He disappears, Dissolves into the crowd, the anger still carved into his features, and suddenly the girl is there. The little nameless girl, blocking your view and trapping your gaze with her own glittering blue. An ugly ambition in those eyes. Her hands wander, trail over exposed hipbones, linger a little too long on your belt buckle. And you stop her, because confusion to you is like alcohol. Blocks your senses, Makes you irrational.

You take a moment to process Axel's words, His reactions. Although trying to understand a mind like Axel's is a difficult task in itself. Even reading his expressions is more needless pressure, and he wears those exposed to the world.

Suddenly you feel overcome with homesickness.

This isn't your scene and you're playing the wrong role.

"Roxas, C'mon".

She leans towards you, glossed lips brushing against your ear. The friction between you makes you feel ill.

"Why did he call you that?" you struggle out, refusing to meet those pleading eyes.

Her hands stop their wandering; she pauses and makes one last desperate attempt to capture your attention, Following your eyes carefully, snatching your chin between her thumb and index, demanding, and more than directing your focus.

"That's my name." She seems saddened by the admittance. Eyes downcast, Hands falling helplessly to her sides. She stands among the throbbing crowd and roaring music, her face blank, awaiting your reaction. You wish you could take a picture. This lonely girl, Dressed in white, among the violence of the streets. You relate.

'Demyx' you repeat over and over in your head, a mantra, linked to Cloud. He's mentioned this person before. The words 'troubled' and 'dangerous' quickly attach themselves to the name. Or maybe you're just dreaming.

She loses her patience. Pushes against you again, snatching your hand, from a pool of Axel's spilled alcohol. She presses it to her thigh, Coaxes it upwards, Insistent that you venture around her skin on your own time. She watches you, the entire time her eyes rest on you. Studying you, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

And you don't break eye contact. This girl terrifies you.

Your fingers wander slowly, awkwardly angular, Like a spider crawling along her skin. But the feelings don't faze her, those piercing eyes are unwavering. Your hand brushes the heat between her legs. You've found what you're looking for. And she knows it, Teeth bared in an ugly sneer.

You've always said you're an idiot.

"You're a-". The words hardly form.

"A boy. Pretty, Ain't I?" he grins, Spinning around on the spot, Pressing a finger to his lips.

Axel knew. Axel hadn't told you, another line of text you just couldn't read off him. But you can't deny these human bonds, and Demyx understands that. He's waiting for you to make your next move, He's already pulled the ace out of his sleeve, Buried it in your back. A sharp ace at that.

You reach out blindly, Clutching for the memory you've made, the little blonde girl in the pretty white dress. And she's there. He's there. And before you know, you're already whispering your forced "I love you"s into her mouth, her hands knotted in your hair.

And everyone here is as oblivious as you wish you were.

* * *

Axel is strangely obedient within her grasp, not struggling for freedom as he's always done in her presence. In their relationship. His wrist is limp, the shock of him stumbling and tripping, tugging her backwards every now and again, the only sign of life from the red-haired ruffian. She can't stop until she's outside; she needs to see that starless sky, the hazy green fog of the city.

She reaches the metal door, slamming it open with a frustrated fist, Cringing slightly as it collides with the stone walls, the horrible crashing sound ringing in her ears. Amplified in Axel's. He finally snatches his arm back from her grasp, Presses two elegant hands to his ears, scrunching his eyes tight. Now she sees his fatal mistake.

She'd always said Axel's fondness for alcohol would be the death of him, and tonight, she finally gets to test out her theory.

She knots a hand in those violent red strands, Yanks his head backwards, exposing the pale stretch of throat, the blue-red pulse beneath and smirks, an awkward curl of her lip. Struggles against the desire to bury teeth around the hammering heartbeat.

Axel stares down at her from hooded eyes, Glazed over green, matching the eerie skies above. There's a teasing glint in his eyes, and even now, while she holds all the cards, playing like a professional, she still feels belittled by just a green eyed glance. He licks his lips, a slow and painful motion, And she watches, Baffled, Finding it increasingly difficult to swallow. Audible gulps.

The bare skin of his back is pressed against the wall, And despite his protests, Hisses between clenched teeth, her delicate hand pressed against his chest convinces him to stay still.

"Miss me?" he asks, Voice husky and strained, Still reaching her ears over the sounds of sirens and screaming.

A sneer creeps across her face, Fingernails rooting themselves in the pain skin of his chest.

"I never miss, Axel". He laughs, and it's just like old times. The threats across the breakfast table and the cold steel pressed to his throat while he slept. She can't understand whether it's the alcohol, or a new reckless bravery he's discovered, but his moves are in no way calculated. He's just having a good time.

"Enjoying Axel free life?" he asks, pausing in his giggling to raise an eyebrow at her. This social persona un nerves her.

"You may have left Ax, but I'm still picking up the little pieces you left behind". He hesitates, Watches her face for some sort of sign that she's not lying.

"And what pieces would you be talking about?" he asks cautiously, suddenly very aware of her nails slicing through the skin on his chest. Aware of the anger in her news. A new found power.

She laughs, daintily covers her mouth with the fingers of her other hand, Throwing her head back. As soon as she seals her pretty lips, the anger is back across her face, Eyebrows knotted in frustration.

"Demyx". One simple word makes Axel want to fall to his knees. There's no point calling for help, the thumping music can be heard through the walls, the streets deserted, and any souls left wandering, Not willing to intervene in a violent lovers quarrel.

"You fucked up Axel. In more ways than one it seems. What are you doing back here?" There's stress on her words, they're forced out between clenched teeth. She digs her nails in once more, reminding him that he's bottom for once.

He turns his eyes to the heavens, either remembering, or fabricating, she doesn't care, just watches this act, and enjoys the feel of his skin on her fingers. Plans to keep him alive as long as possible.

"Actually, A little bird told me Demyx had found himself a new friend." He smiles. As if that's enough.

"And?" She snarls impatiently.

"Well I can't risk Demyx teamin' up with someone who could accidentally mention him to Xemnas. Might lose my job".

She shakes her head, Laughs regretfully. Always lookin' out for number one. Demyx has been lonely for years.

"And as usual, you take matters into your own hands."

"Exactly. I follow this new guy around, Find out; He's not actually that bad. Nice kid, Strange attitude though-" He trails off, obviously a little baffled by the little blonde.

"Strife's brother," She finishes. A smug smile across her face after noticing the shock in his eyes.

Suddenly the mood is dampened, all the dangerous teasing comes to an end. Axel's drunken confessions make her heart wrench. All these emotions he's not capable of when he's sober. Who knows? Maybe he did one feel something for her, Just couldn't drink enough to admit it.

He hangs his head, His shame sending shivers up her spine.

"I just wanna make amends" he says, Slowly, Voice cracking. It's raw emotion, although she hasn't quite pinned a title on it yet.

"I owe Cloud. I let him die. We all did. But I'm not letting the same thing happen again". He looks up at her, not moving his head, just glaring green gazing up at her from his slouched position against the wall. She retracts her nails, let's her hands hang helplessly by her sides. Makes another weak attempt at reading his emotion. He's as determined as ever to do what he feels is right.

He lets out a deep breath he hadn't realised he been holding. Relief at the admittance or the fact the nymph doesn't have her claws buried in his skin. He forces himself from the walls, Ready to leave, Go back inside and deny this ever happened. Maybe he'll wrench Demyx and Roxas apart. He's not eager to see someone else's happiness. Or maybe he'll just tell Roxas the truth about Demyx and watch how that little act plays out.

Before he reaches the door, He comes to a slightly startled stop. The cool metal pressed against his throat an indication that he may not get a chance to pester the two blondes indoors.

"Back up Axel. Where's the fire?" She snarls Smiling and bearing teeth. An action she must have inherited from Saix over the years. He's too exhausted to fight back. Just returns to his position against the wall, Mind lingering on the feeling of metal against his clammy skin.

This was going to be a long night. Or the last night. He's not particularly concerned.

* * *

Saix lingers in the shadows by the large metal door, Left open to groan and creek in the breeze. The sounds cover his footsteps perfectly. He watches the interactions between the two former lovers with a calculated interest. He remembers the issues their relationship had caused throughout the gang. He remembers the rage Axel often threw Larxene into without so much as a second thought. And here they are, Pressed closed against the wall, Skin on Skin, Just like old times, Except for the warning glint of steel between them.

Axel's in trouble, although his face wouldn't suggest it, this is just another obstacle ruining his drunken night. Saix finds himself debating whether or not to save the flame-haired fighter. Content to just watch Larxene cut him a big red smile, From ear to ear.

He knows Xemnas would protest, Turn on him. Xemnas had a sort of fatherly soft spot for Axel. Let him away with things that could end in disastrous results for their gang. It's Xemnas' reaction that keeps Saix moving, coiling around the shadows, Pinning himself to the wall behind Larxene, Slinking up, and Listening closely to their conversation.

Axel's bored. These life threats are nothing new; He just does his act to please Larxene. Sighing and begging, and he mean none of it. He's eyes trail around the alleyway, Hazy from alcohol. He's not so eager to die among the overturned trash cans and soggy cardboard boxes.

He catches a glint of something in the moonlight. A piercing gold. A pair of eyes, watching him from across the alley. He can't make out much more of the body, just the angular, Ugly X carved across the pretty features.

Saix.

There's blood pooling in the hollow of his throat, Where Larxene makes slow, Shallow, Deliberate cuts. Marking her territory.

She leans forward, Glossy lips only inches from Axel's own, But before the contact, the man in the shadows lunges forward, an angry growl echoes in the night as Larxene hits the ground a few feet from Axel. Her eyes squeezed shut. The dagger lost to her hand, Hiding somewhere in the shadows.

Axel instinctively presses fingers to the blood on his throat, watching her motionless bodies as Saix looms over it.

"She's not dead" he confirms, delivering a heavy kick to her ribs, an angry groan escaping her lips as she attempts to roll away from him. He doesn't waste his time, Returns to the bleary eyed, slack jawed Axel. The shock evident on the young man's face.

"Axel, we gotta go. Xigbar'll clean this up."

Axel nods obediently, still avoiding the golden glare. Saix' calmness only lasts for a short amount of time.

Saix turns to leave, but a gentle gasp stops him. Something so emotional in the streets is rarely overheard. He doesn't turn to witness, or embarrass the owner. He doesn't understand what's running through that complicated mind. He just knows, Axel's crying. Or trying to. That boy hasn't cried in years. Just soft, shallow gasps, but no tears.

He knows he should say something. Tries to remember what his own mother would say to him. Draws a blank. Remembers who he'd talk to in times of need.

Cloud.

"What's wrong, Axel?" His voice struggles to sound soft. But Axel recognises the words and not the tone. He waits, until his breathing evens out, Takes a deep breath.

"I'm just trying to help" he murmurs, the words not lost on Saix.

"I need to repay Cloud. I want to protect his brother. But I can hardly protect myself." he whispers, the mention of the name from someone else's lips stirring up painful memories in Cloud's mind. H hasn't dwelled on thoughts of Cloud since the boy's death.

"You paid your debt Axel." he states, Level tone, Bored indifference.

Axel sniggers, an unenthusiastic sound.

"Are you sure?" he asks, already knowing the answer himself. Wondering if maybe Saix has already discovered his long hidden mistake. Saix glances over his shoulder, weary eyes resting on Axel once again. His face shows nothing, a good sign in Axel's eyes.

"Let's go Axel. We won't report this to Xemnas".

And he agrees, because mentioning Demyx' reappearance would not be such a smooth move.


	16. Survive In The Nightlife

**I'm sick again. but i got free vodka. so it's aaaaalllll gravy. **

**yeah, this is a crap chap, i'm back to school tomorrow, so i probably won't see the laptop for a while. Just gettin' it up.**

**so yeah, read & review and all that jazz. considering the hits i have, lots of people must be scared of me. so yeah, if there's loose ends i'm forgetting about just lemme know so i can sort'em out before the end. Man, i'm so senile.**

* * *

The next morning you crawl the streets, the party still freshly planted in your memory. You can still smell the alcohol; feel the bass pulsing through your body, the explosive pain in your head. The ice cold caress, the marks of frozen touches still imprinted on your thighs. Your desperate search for Demyx, the boy who'd fallen on his knees for you. The pretty little dancer who captivated an audience both on and off stage. Those envious eyes, watching you from the shadows, eagerly anticipating each gasp that escaped your lips. You can still feel her soft golden hair, clutched tight between your clenched fists.

Your mind wonders to axel. That boy was a mystery, gift-wrapped in a teasing smirk. You still reluctantly recall his expression, the emotions running through those eyes. The glittering green had darkened, murky and deep. Anger and loss, flickering behind the strange colours, his brow knotted in frustration, his lips pressed into a grim line.

But none of those stray emotions had been directed at you, instead his eyes focused solely on Demyx.

Perhaps Axel had been a former customer, it was no secret that Demyx' alter-ego had a solid reputation on the streets.

A poster boy for trashy, willing to spread his legs to anyone with more cents in their pockets than their heads.

And yet, you couldn't keep wandering hands away from his pale skin. Addicted to the cool, calming feelings, the chill of his hands pressed to your hips.

The thoughts, the feelings all returning to you at once, are enough to make you pause in your footsteps, and swallow hard.

A chance to take in your surroundings. The sights and the smells. Shiny plastic and glittering jewellery, hairspray, cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. The streets are littered with people, stumbling and laughing, still struggling home after last night.

You feel sick, anxious, your insides knotted with worry, concern. And none of the emotions fit. You feel like your waiting for something, another disaster.

A group of girls linger by the boarded up windows of an abandoned shop, each clutching a suspicious paper bag between their hands, sucking their life source from the bottles hidden within. You keep your eyes rooted to the concrete, hands shoved deep in your pockets, eager to escape their preying eyes. You count the footsteps you leave behind, feeling the burning sensation on your skin, the lazy eyes drag slowly over your lone figure. And you can hardly resist glancing towards the source.

"You wanna come play?" a voice calls to you, the owner of the wandering eyes. A small blonde girl, leaning casually against the splintering wood, watching you with a unique interest on her face. Strange coloured eyes measuring your movements, your reactions. She's fascinated by you, watching you navigate your way 'round the trash and bloodstains.

You hesitate in your hurry, glance up, knuckles white in your pockets. Thick ropes of beaded braids fall into her eyes, preventing you from your fair guess at their strange colour. Her lips are curled in mischievous smirk and suddenly you're desperate to see her eyes, to know what she's thinking.

How easily people can read you from a glance, and yet, you can't even see this girls eyes, and she's smiling at that fact.

"Smile, it could be worse". A softer voice calls to you, Gentle and reassuring. A timid brunette, she doesn't smile, offers you her sympathy with her eyes. And she relates to you. She knows you're lost, but she can't understand why.

And maybe you feel the same way. Lost and abandoned, with no recollection of how you wound up here.

You nod your acceptance to her, heart melting a little at the shy smile that creeps across her features. And you continue on your way, until the voices are only carried over distance, and the smells have disappeared.

By the time you reach Demyx' corner, the streets are deserted. Even nature has lost all hope, no sound of birds, no sounds of life, just the distant sound of heavy machinery clanking away. How lonely this little corner of hell is. Demyx is gone, his harshly decorated trophy case abandoned. Not even the sparkling glitter of his red shoes decorates the concrete, just drops of blood.

You let out a deep breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding. A warm wave of relief washes over you. You had wanted to confront Demyx, to understand what goes on inside the lost mind behind the sparkling blue eyes. At the some time, you were reluctant to feel the strange tension his actions had created last night, Unwilling to expose yourself to that again.

You feel triumphant and neglected, and your head reels in the confusion.

"Roxas?" a soft voice calls to you, closer than the lingering groups of strangers.

Kairi.

Her concern is evident in her tone, her brow knitted in worry, alarmed to see you back so soon. She runs towards you, and you watch her from the corner of your eye. Even in her moments of motherly panic, she still maintains a practised grace. A gentle hand rests on your shoulder, the delicate fingers pressed hard into bruised skin. She leans, her lavender hued eyes searching for contact with yours.

"Roxas, what's wrong?" her voice wavers, and you can't understand why she's so upset, can't understand her source of panic, as if your appearance here, searching for Demyx, is a bad omen.

Your glazed over blue eyes finally lock onto hers, and she has the good grace to look embarrassed. She had been at the bar last night. She'd watched your expression as you fell at the blonde boy's mercy.

She keeps her lips sealed, nodding encouragingly up at you, before pulling herself back up to full height.

"I was just looking for someone" you mumble, although by now, it's painfully obvious how lonely you are, how desperate you are for Demyx' attention. She nods slowly, silent understanding, and there's so many questions posed behind her pretty lips, and you know she's struggling to keep herself contained. You can only hope she reads the appreciation in your expression over the disappointment.

"Was axel nice to you last night?" she asks, humour in her voice, and you glance up, obviously misinterpreting her question. She doesn't give you a chance to respond, and you suspect she's only speaking now to avoid one of those malicious questions slipping out in an awkward silence.

"I'm so sorry about Riku. He and Axel, Those two are-"

"Strange together" you interrupt, not eager to hear the dimensions of the relationship they share. She still watches you, her lips parted in confused fascination.

Meanwhile you're struggling to figure out why the word 'relationship' frustrates you so much, your fists are curled again, nails leaving half moons imbedded in the skin of your palms. It's a struggle to keep your teeth from grinding.

"Did you have a good night?" she asks, running the words together frantically, like she knows how you feel, like she read the feelings straight off a page. She clasps her hands, eyes eager and anticipating, desperate to know your opinions on your first taste of the nightlife.

Your first taste and you're addicted.

You nod slowly, enjoying the bright smile the pulls at the corners of her lips.

"Looking for Melody I assume," she smiles again, and you can't help but feel that this is terrible acting. Her smile to bright, to monotonous. Kairi is by no means a 2 dimensional character, but somehow she seems so fake right now. She's pulled tight, Rigid, and your suspicions are rising.

"Actually", you begin, and you almost swear she's stopped breathing, bug eyes fixed on you.

"I was hoping I might run into Demyx".

She does well not to let her surprise show. Takes a hesitant step backwards. Now she has to improvise in her little act, and she's obviously not prepared. She opens her mouth to speak, but all she manages are a few false starts. The words are caught in her throat and she's struggling to get them up in some kind of order.

"Demyx?" she finally manages, an eyebrow rises appropriately, and the strong urge to laugh is hard to resist. You squeeze your lips shut and count in your head.  
She already knew about Demyx. The truth painted in red between the lines in her eyes.

The most you manage is a sneer. You could never manage a smile. Not since the day cloud took it to his grave.

"I know" you say slowly, and her face falls. How wouldn't you know, Demyx had trailed your fingers up his thighs, guided you to his well kept secret, smiling at you the entire time. He knew you weren't going to throw away stray affections. How well he read you.

Just another truth you can't hide in your eyes.

"He told you?" she asks slowly, cautiously, eyes darting about her, surveying her surroundings. Demyx must be a well-kept secret. How honoured you are. Lavender eventually comes to settle on you, a genuine smile of relief on her features.

"Axel kinda blurted it out," you explain, and her features are stony and hard once again, but you don't allow her the chance to complain.

"How did Axel know?" you question, deliberately leaning closer to her, confident that the more pressure you place her under, the more truths she'll manage.

Her mouth hangs uselessly once more, eyes fixed on your face. She's wilting before you, shrivelling into her.

"Did axel tell you anything?" she resorts to another question, throwing your determination of track, now you're stumbling to find your words. What had he got to tell you? Was he angry at you? Was he disgusted at you? The fact that you still pretended you believed in love. And there's an ache in your chest you can't describe. The lost look on your face, the pain quivering in your eyes is enough to convince Kairi to keep talking.

"Axel and Demyx have a past together", she sighs, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Immediately your mind is in overdrive. You want to know what was between them, want to reenact it if it gets you your affections. You forget about the anger, uncharacteristic and strange, bubbling behind Axel's normally neutral green eyes. Obviously the history they've written together isn't something Axel takes much pride in.

"They used to work together" her voice breaks into your thoughts. She's not looking at you any more, faint purple eyes hazy, staring off through the buildings, counting the empty windows. She's not smiling either, all those fake emotions washed from her face at the revealing of how much you knew exactly.

"Where?" you ask, your voice sounding quite, defeated. The third wheel to their already happy equation.

She snorts in amusement, wondering if maybe you don't know as much as you let on. But she's got that vulnerable spot, and every time you open your mouth, it reminds her how young you are. How naïve you are. And you don't need her sympathies for that. You're already painfully aware.

"Under Xemnas, Roxas. Keep up," she taunts, poking at your chest with a polished finger.

"Did Axel tell you what it is exactly he does" she wonders aloud, far more serious this time, watching your expressions carefully, aware that your next question could devastate the relationship between you and axel.

You shake your head 'no' and watch the hesitance take hold of her once more. She adjusts her hair with trembling hands, chewing on her lip, her string of muttered curses not lost on your ears.

She sighs, taking her defeat with a watery smile.

"Axel's an … assassin; I suppose you could call him. Just hired muscle". She waits patiently for your response, not willing to rush, not certain that the secret was hers to tell. This Kairi girl seems to hold so many peoples truths. A dangerous enemy to make.

"Bone," you mutter eventually.

"Excuse me," she sounds truly baffled, obviously your response not the one her script had informed her about.

"Bone. Axel's hardly hired muscle. Hired bone" you sigh, unsure of how to react. And she laughs half-heartedly at your pathetic attempt to make the truth less serious.

You'd never pinned Axel for a job involving so much trust and determination. He hardly seemed the type to stay on track for long. His fondness seemed to lie in the bottom of his shot glass collection, not with death. And the facts stir up strange feelings in the pit of your stomach. But you're not angry, all this, just adds more interesting angles to his personality. If anything you're more captivated. But those feelings of attachment conjure up a different name in your head.

"And Demyx, What's that got to do with Demyx?"

Kairi laughs, genuine this time, sinister, obviously not in her script. Not a sound you'd ever expect to hear from her pretty mouth.

"Demyx?" she repeats through desperate gasps for air.

"Demyx is Axel's only failed assignment. Sure, He's had the barrel pressed against that pretty boys' head," she imitates the weapon with her index finger and thumb, pointing it to her temple and jabbing.

"But Ax could just never pull the trigger".


	17. You Bite To Excite Yourself

**I fucked up my hand! typed this with lefty! so proud! tear I'm never healthy healthy. Just one of those people! I was gonna say something vaguely intelligent here, which woulda been a nice change, But i can't fucking remember what?! Maybe i'll stop swearing. I'll do that tomorrow. I should probably study for orals .. EXAMS! .. Oral exams. Don't be sick. And i need to pee. But this is a story not a diary! Have fun now chile!**

* * *

You turn the thoughts over in your head, they violently echo in your ears. Past connections between Axel and your demon in disguise. The idea doesn't seem so farfetched; if Axel's raging eyes were any indication. The seething green, and sharp angles of his face will stay imprinted in your mind. Just another aspect of the fiery assassin that grates your nerves and churns your stomach.

Kairi had hardly looked entertained, offering you a timid hand, coaxing you more so into the violence of the streets. The simple circles this street circus ran in, have been disturbed and broken by your appearance. Your name is devastation, scrawled all over your face in Demyx' lipstick. All these street kids want to play with you, but consequence is the only thing they fear.

Her truth tore your world down around your ankles. All of a sudden Axel makes sense. An assassin. A hired murderer, a weapon himself. And yet, with all that burning determination, Kairi claims he couldn't pull the trigger. Surely anyone with an ounce of pride would never admit to failure, and axel wears his pride as the scars on his body and the tattoos carved into his face. His story seems common knowledge, Kairi knew the intimate details. And you smile, how does an assassin get work, when he can't kill anyone?

A valuable person perhaps?

Or maybe just someone with a valuable secret.

Kairi was a mouthpiece, that was for certain, but she was a source of information, keeping you updated on the stories the media don't want you to hear.

Along the lines of media, you briefly wonder why someone like axel hasn't been caught yet, his fiery temper and impulse actions a recipe for disaster in his line of work. A tinge of guilt creeps into your mind.

This is your best friend.

This is the closest thing you'll ever have to a best friend.

Your feet carry you once more through the streets with practised ease; they've made this painful journey time and time again. Your eyes scan for Demyx, hugging the walls and kissing his cigarettes, parading his wares for anyone who's willing to believe in love for a brief few minutes. You had no problems keeping a grasp on the boy, clinging onto that shimmering skin with your life. But all of a sudden, that red tornado comes tearing through your life, blows the little blonde fairy away. Ever since Axel's appearance, Demyx has disappeared back into the paint-streaked walls. He's been running. Your mind reels, scans frantically, searching for any encounters you've witnessed between the two before. A few days after your paid introduction to Demyx, he'd brought you to that run down little café. Smiled at you across the rim of a coffee cup and brushed against your knees beneath the table. The noise and the cheap smoke, suddenly you're back in the café, the torn vinyl and the 'no smoking' signs. The hooded boy by the bar, arguing with the staff, cigarette clenched between his teeth. Red hair bleeding from his hood. And now that your not there, the details come rushing back, or maybe you're just imagining them, just to fill in the gaps in the stories you've collected. Her leg suddenly rigid against yours. Her voice coming to an abrupt halt, you'd assumed she'd become wrapped up, like yourself, entertained by the argument by the bar. Hardly the truth, and with Kairi's help you figure it out.

Demyx had recognised axel, stolen himself away from the café, not willing to encounter his angel of death. Things obviously hadn't ended on a positive note. Although you figure it's hard to befriend, or re-friend, the friend sent to kill you.

Demyx and Axel had worked together, had, under Xemnas, as Kairi had said. Both sly aces in the same dirty hands you assume. And Axel still answers to the silver-haired master of intimidation, although he does it reluctantly.

So Demyx had left, Walked out on the family he'd created for himself, the mismatched team, willing to offer him something genuine. A smile. A touch that wasn't asking for anything more. A chill runs up your spine.

A lot of the stories can't be linked, and you can't decipher truth from rumour. You can't organise their lives. You can hardly organise your own.

This street looks familiar, the buildings calling you and coaxing you. But you're feet have carried you here of their own accord, their own private joke, that's all you are. You feel unsafe without axel. You doubt you'd feel safer with him. Boy's an assassin with blood on his hands after all. Although you're wandering mind convinces you, you wouldn't mind those bloody handprints on your thighs. Axel has brought you here before, walked you through these streets, your illness effecting you, while he whispered reassurances close to your hear. The feeling of the warmth on your ears makes you smile, a dopey grin. So phased out, you hardly hear the voice sniping at you from the shadows.

"Well if isn't Axel's pretty little doll".

The voice is low, grimy, crawls along your skin. He steps from the shadows, and you're met with the patchwork face of Xigbar, smiling around his spite. His aura is sharp, and suddenly you're painfully aware of how alone you are. Your hands grasp subtly behind you for Axel, As if your distress is a siren for him.

Xigbar slinks along, the cracks in the concrete seeming to appear with his stride. He walks with the weary body of a man who's played this street game for too long. And you imagine he's hardly much older than Axel, and yet he looks like some kids mismatched jigsaw puzzle, the patches of his face uneven, a blend of rough and smooth, peach and pink. It's hard to swallow, suddenly he's towering above you, leering down at you with a glittering yellow eye.

"I recall Axel warnin' yah away from me, baby blonde" he sneers, his voice crawling with sarcasm. He raises his hands, as if to touch you, and you're repulsed by the idea, but he withdraws his hand, as if recalling something, maybe the menacing look in Axel's eye.

"Here for a reason, little girl?" he purrs, breath sharp against your ear. You're not looking for Axel, Not willing to deal with his ranting and ravings, those dangerous glints to his eyes. He's a fear and an addiction, but he's too bright for your life right now. You won't find Demyx here, That boy's written himself out of street history, hiding in the shadows with his skirt hiked around his waist, his face contorted with some blissful combination of disgust and pleasure. You won't find yourself here, these circus freaks have made is pretty obvious that you're not a welcome presence. They glare at you, cursing you for the problems you never caused. They see you as something else.

"Xemnas. I wanna talk to Xemnas" you announce, surprised at the confidence in your voice. Xigbar looks amused, interesting him. He's amazed you have a voice. He steps back, folds his arms, and crosses them over a broad chest, criss-crossed from war. Watches you with an entertained glint in his eyes. A smirk crosses his thin lips, and he's just emphasising how out of your element you are.

"I'm sure I can let you in sunshine, since you ain't carrying any diseases" he grins, understanding your confusion, "Any red-headed diseases I mean".

He turns on his heel, doesn't indicate you should follow, although you'd willingly fight Xigbar to find your way inside. All the questions are pounding in your head, prying your lips apart and threatening to spill across the concrete. But you lower your head, wipe the satisfied smirk from your features, and obediently follow the battle-scarred brute.

You notice how he holds his hands, clenches and unclenches his fists, trigger fingers curled awkwardly, naturally. Probably another assassin, another source of entertainment for Xemnas, who seems to enjoy keeping disaster within arms reach. Something for the kiddies.

He drags you through the same hallways, the same empty echoing corridors as before. Some rooms boarded up, while other hang open, the people inside watching you, staring out through the portal with huge bug-eyes, taking you in, silently begging for your help. Sweaty skinned and slow moving.

Axel hadn't told you Xemnas had dabbled in drugs. Another repulsive point against the fire-fighter. Drugs not something that captivates your attentions for long. You've tried it, combed the white powders into their perfect lines. Drove yourself to insanity, struggled until you could hardly breathe. You'd lay back, the old hideout, something comfortable and familiar, and watch Hayner, his skin already shining from sweat, his eyes distant. He'd take his pills; touch his chest like he was meeting it for the first time. Smile at you before he'd touch your chest, touch your lips, and then touch his own. The boy was discovering life for the first time every time. It was his first time, and you were too fucked up to care. Difference was, you learned how to say no, saw the urgency in refusing once Cloud caught on to your subtle little addictions. Hayner was stuck in his painful cycle, selling anything he could to keep the coloured little pills in his pocket. He'd made a collection, he'd show you each time you'd encounter him. Holding out trembling hands, but each time, his collection would decrease in size.

What sad stories these people write, everyone just wanting to be different, and fighting against what they are just to maintain someone's interest.

You haven't seen him in years.

Cloud had warned you, Informed you people were looking for Hayner. The quirky little kid had neglected to pay his dealers. Who knows? Maybe you've just interfered in his dangerous little cycle. These could be his dealers. These could be the people who wanted him dead. Your brother. You always had your suspicious, Cloud liked to play with natural law. You assume he choose this life, just for the sirens, the wail of the police calls late into the night. Or maybe he was making a collection himself. Scars and bruises. And sad little stories he's never had to live. Never had a chance to.

"Any particular reason?" Xigbar's voice tears you from your past, your depressing history.

"For what?" you mutter, and from some reason, you can't feel intimidated. This huge bulk of a man and yet nothing sparks, you answer back as if talking to a friend, and his laughing only encourages you. He can't rot you with once glance.

Not like Axel.

"For visiting the superior" he states, bored already. You can still feel those bug-eyes on you. Terrified that should you pause, even for a second; those desperate hands will reach from their shadowed doorways and pull you in, Drag you back into your own biography. Why are you here? Just to pay a visit, Thank him for allowing you to tag along with his employees to the club the other night? You just want to know something; you're desperate to know anything.

"Like I said, Just to talk".

He nods, Sarcastically, Glancing back over his shoulder to measure your reactions to their private world. He doesn't like how well you've adapted. Doesn't like how you absorb your surroundings, take them in like it's nothing new. He stops, gestures vaguely to a door, his visible eye already locked onto the occurrences in one of the rooms off to the side. He doesn't even pause to ensure you've understood, makes his way across the creaking floorboards, swallowed up into the interior of the house.

"Saix is out" he calls over his shoulder, waving you off with little interest.

Funny how you'd forgotten about the raging animal rampaging within these walls. You briefly wonder if axel is here. Then realise you spend more of your time chasing people than talking to them. You measure your friends by how far they run away. One of life's little messes you are.

A walking disaster.

You gently tap on the door, still debating whether or not this was a bad idea. There's shuffling inside, no snarling, no snapping. Evidently the angry wolf has taken his leave. Disappeared into the street crowds where he's nothing spectacular, with his gleaming gold eyes and striking electric blue hair. There's a shuffling of paper, soft swearing, the screeching of metal on wood. The shuffling of hurried footsteps. Someone clears their throat.

"Come in", he calls, the thin walls barely distorting his solid voice. Gingerly pushing the door open, glancing around its corner, watching the silver-haired man with a frightened interest. He's seated behind the desk, the same image. This is how he'll always be. Every time you've seen him, planted behind his decaying desk. He still looks young, Forced into his position, Pre-maturely mature. Funny that. He looks exhausted. Wrings his knuckles, warped with frustration. Doesn't smile when you enter, just glances at you, this it what he was expecting. Everything to go wrong.

Business as usual.

"Roxas?" he only raises an eyebrow, a practised skill. Eyes immediately run back towards his desk, the ragged papers spread across its surface. He rubs his eyes. How long has he been trapped in these paper walls.

"Something wrong?" his voice is low, cracked from lack of sleep. He doesn't look like he's recovered from the club night. Looks like he's fallen in love and filed for the divorce within the space of an hour. You kind of relate.

"Just wanna preposition you, I suppose" you mumble. Your voices are too vibrant against the background noise of silence.

He grins, He's face clearly distorting with the strain, Even from the position you watch him from, His face angled towards the desktop, Staring down so you can't see how worn out he is. How vulnerable he is. He already knows what this is about. He knows you're still curious. He knows you were at the club. He saw you. Watched you with envious eyes as the blonde's lips crawled all over your skin.

"Why can't I be here?" you ask. Plain and simple, and the words may sound desperate, but maybe you are. You haven't smoothly, seamlessly fit in anywhere since you abandoned your schooling. You miss that ordinary life. Before the breakdown, before the streets deteriorated to useless fighting. Back when your parents loved you, patted your head and walked you places, holding your hand and parading you with pride. It was all a pretty show, your home life falling to shreds. But even as a child, you learned to play along. You miss your school friends, the definite facts of the books, the words consoling you. You were a smart kid, you had your friends. And then Cloud started acting weird. And your life took an ugly twist for the worst. And once again you played along.

And here you are.

Xemnas let's out a long sigh, but the words don't follow. Just glares up at you through silvery lashes, hardly interested in your vocal musings. His fingers trace the scattered papers; you're reminded of the cards sent for your brother, all dated from months and months ago, a stretched timeline. Paper apologies still abandoned on the kitchen table. His fingers drumming the funeral march across the crumbled sheets draw you back to the waking world. You've been drifting off a lot lately. A delayed reaction from the drugs you wonder.

"Are you afraid?" You can't understand why you asked it, Why you feel it's relevant, But his eyes are hard to read, Years of practice. Axel still doesn't know how to hide his emotions. He probably never will. Xemnas' eyes are hard marble, staring you down at the mention of fear. He raises that eyebrow again, willing you to continue, amused by your train of thought.

"Afraid I'm gonna get my sanity back? Fuck off and leave you?".

He glances up once again, Smirks. You can hardly keep this mans attentions. And you can barely stop the verbal rubbish spilling from your mouth. Your confidence comes in bursts, a broken water fountain, spouting momentarily before running dry. Spluttering and stopping. He doesn't respond to you, doesn't need to, you're already making enough of a fool of yourself, Xemnas knows he needn't say anything. You're frustrated; He's like nails on a chalk board. Your fists curl into pretty knots by your sides, you're snarling through your teeth. Saix may not be here, But you're imitating him to the best of your ability.

He's raw, and you're fake.

"Leave? Just like Demyx did?" you say, Stutter before you can pinch your lips closed with your fingers. You've captured him now; he's trapped by your words. He rises to his feet behind his desk, shoving the crinkled papers to the floorboards, digging graceful fingers into the wood. There's a snarl across his features now, Gleaming teeth strangely luminous in his dark-skinned face. He doesn't look as amused, totally discarding his previous expressions selection. He doesn't look disgusted, another emotion thrown to the wind. Its pure anger carved into his skin now.

"Demyx didn't leave. Demyx is dead".

he doesn't bother to ask how you know Demyx. Anger overtakes common sense.

And just like that, the impact, the issues tip-toed around in the last few days, come crashing down round your ears, and the noise sets your stomach fluttering. The urge to laugh is overwhelming, you fight the desire to press fingertips to your lips, not willing to laugh in the face of this raging man. Not now, not ever. It makes a little more sense now. Axel's character redeemed, If only slightly.

Axel. You've seen his act; you've seen his sly intelligence now. He's a talented actor, playing stupid like he was made for the role. He's been playing his superiors for idiots. Who knows how long he's been lying, and you're pretty sure you can reveal his little drama with the use of Kairi's obsession with a dangerous knowledge of everyone she comes in contact with.

"Hardly dead. Maybe spiritually. Not physically," you explain, Enjoying the vicious cycle of emotions that trail over his face. From violent anger to a sad regret. Misunderstanding and total despair. All these stray thoughts roll off him, the atmosphere in the room thick with regret. His fingers tremble, the veins, like colourful ribbons, pulse through his skin. He spits through his teeth, hasn't raised his eyes to meet you yet. Because right now, you're holding all the cards, are you're not surrendering them until you're done caressing them.

"Demyx? ALIVE?" He yells, the walls visibly shake with the force. The hushed giggles and gentle footsteps from the hallways cease. It's just you, him, and the silent, fuming rage. You're not sure, but you're confident you've just signed Axel's death certificate.

"Axel. He promised. That scumbag promised me, just once, He'd follow the rules, Do what was necessary. And now I find out-" he glances up at you for clarification, his twisted amusement clear on his face.

"He's been playing one ugly practical joke on me it seems."

You're dumb, Numbed, Not sure what to say to the man who finds out he's been tricked by an idiot. He's still angry, that's evident. The sparks still burning away in his eyes, like fireworks, Flaring and fizzling. He struggles for words, and you momentarily wonder if maybe a dash towards the door is out of the question. You can almost feel the brass knob between your cold fingertips.

"This is why you can't be here Roxas!" he bellows at the wood beneath his trembling hands.

"You have all this information, all this potential. But you'd leave given the chance. You're damage addicted. I can't have that here".

His explanations don't make sense, you're just transfixed by the glare in his eyes, the ugly twist to each word, the way he spits your name. He's not sitting behind that desk for nothing.

"Besides," he starts, an ego murdering, Insult to injury, "You're a lot like your brother."

And there's your confirmation, Right from the mouth of god. Cloud hadn't been playing much by the rules in his later years. Sneaking out late at night. The next morning he'd sit, Dark-eyed and hoarse, Hunched over the kitchen table covered in papers and schoolbooks. A cereal bowl would sit before him, Untouched, The spoon discarded on the floor somewhere. He'd stay out all night, Stumble in early the next morning, Stinking of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. You weren't surprised he'd begged for a part in the street drama, all the 'big' boys were doing it, Desperate for a slice of the action. Cloud had always been so reserved, Content with his own company, not so eager to mix well, Play well with others. Evidently even his little trips under the stars couldn't fix that. He could never play well.

That's why he's dead.

You don't answer him; don't rise to his bait, not even aware if he's trying to provoke you. It just seems to fit his persona, another jigsaw piece to a complicated human being. You don't have to answer, He's prepared to argue with himself now, just desperate to work out some of the kinks, some of the knots you've so kindly put in the tension.

"Your brother was a decent boy, Roxas. You can have confidence in that. But Demyx-", he snorts in amusement, "That boy was willing to lick his finger and shove it in a socket if it meant drama".

You've never heard Xemnas utter more tan a dignified command, a warning order to Saix. His usually brief, blunt vocabulary thrown to the dogs. He's willing to joke, Laugh, scream, roar. You're just amazed he's willing to show his human side like this. The emotions raw and unprocessed, unrestrained. He's not as graceful as you'd first imagined. There's nothing graceful about the neglected emotions he refuses to reel in.

You just stand, Awkwardly, Robbed of your own voice, watching this man confirm you brother was as much a threat to society, as you're attempting to be now. But Demyx. His says the name like it hurts, contorts the muscles in his face, eyes narrowed to gleaming yellow slits.

Demyx had wronged this mismatched group of reluctant family. He'd owed them something, loyalty or blood. You're not sure. You're not particularly concerned. And even though your mind wanders, focuses more on Xemnas' body language than his words, you can't stop the questions pushing and shoving, forcing their way from the silence behind your lips.

"Tell me".

Two simple words and you've reduced Xemnas to a silently shaking wreck, white knuckled, bloodshot eyes darting frantically about the room. Demyx is dead after all. Can't have anyone hearing otherwise.

He takes a deep breath, struggles to make eye contact, but when he does, it burns. The blood bubbling beneath your skin. Seats himself once more behind the desk, a picture of importance. A worn smile stretches his mouth at unpleasant angles. He's organising his words, weary of what he's telling you. Already suspicious you know so much about their smudged history. You've already gotten Axel in trouble, gladly lead him to it with fancy words. You're already aware he faces punishment, the murderous look in Xemnas' eye punishment enough. But you can't mention Kairi, The poor girl hardly able to defend herself. She'd be another lost cause, another Demyx. A fugitive from the dark side of the law.

In these streets, Xemnas is law.

"I assume you're already acquainted with Demyx".

So quickly he slips back into formalities. His leadership qualities easily overthrowing his poisonous reactions. His voice is calm once more, turbulent eyes finally at ease. You nod slowly, Mouth parted slightly. You fight back against your tongue, Unwilling to allow any words to escape. You fear should you speak now, Xemnas will find reason to neglect his little tale.

"Demyx was ... is … a curious customer."

He acknowledges that Demyx is still street crawling, even after 'death'. The spite is riddled with his words.

"Saix found him. He claims he saw something in that boy that made him double take. Saix is usually a smart decision maker."

You nod slightly again, Unsure of how you're supposed to react to his monologue. You doubt he needs your encouragement to continue, but to acknowledge his words seems to drive him.

"Shortly after Demyx started up around here, He was put under questioning for suspicious money earning activities. That kid was waving to much spare notes around, I'm not sure whether it was jealousy or suspicion that drove his fellow members to inform me of his latest development."

You're confident you already know where Demyx gathered all his extra green from. He may have fought once, ropey muscles beneath his thin clothes. His technique may have been what attracted the berserker's attention to begin with. But times had changed, and Demyx adapted, Moulding and melting into whatever was necessary to smooth over a potentially disastrous situation. He was like water in that way. His body could still be seen as a weapon of mass destruction, but you fear it causes more damage to its host that it's victim.

"Xigbar let him escape with just a mother's warning to her son. He could never raise his voice, or a hand, to Demyx".

The lack of ability to control Demyx seems to be something you all have in common.

Who can control the ocean?

Even Xigbar, the puzzle piece giant, easily towering over Axel, Had fallen to his knees at the mercy of Demyx' faux charms.

"What did you do?" your own voice scratching at the uncomfortable silence, willing Xemnas on. He's pausing at if he's struggling to remember. People don't forget tsunami's crashing through, tearing their lives apart.

That's what Demyx was.

Another reckless natural disaster.

His fingers continue to tap out soothing patterns on the paper, occasionally tracing the letters with a fond care.

"I assigned Saix to take care of his mess. He could never push Demyx away. He may not look it, or act it, But Saix is human. He's got all the emotions and thoughts that go with the title. He's just better at the disguising them, the only one frequently slipping through being that manic rage. He held on to Demyx like he'd been ordered to. He couldn't stand the boy. But he'd once said that he knew he'd made a mistake. But he kept it around, because something told him it was there for a reason."

Xemnas speaks easily now, His mouth a little looser in Saix' absence. And maybe there is a hint of fear in how Xemnas feels towards Saix. To have that vicious wolf man leering over your shoulder day-in-day-out, you figure must be a nerve shredding experience.

"Was there a reason?" You whisper, more so to yourself than Xemnas, But he smiles, he's heard you, But that's a secret he's debating whether to reveal or not. You can't stop your mouth, another aspect of your life you've lost your power over. But he seems to enjoy your verbal vomit, enjoying the fact that even staring power in its face, your lack of control still shines recklessly through.

"Perhaps" he says simply, expression of recollection on his face suggesting there's more. The urge to speak is undeniable; the words trapped in your throat burn you, Desperate for a way to escape, to earn you the title 'idiot'.

"Because of Demyx' total disregard for his 'co-workers', Saix scavenged the streets, and in them, found his new best friend".

His smile suggests he's satisfied with his explanation; he's willing to abandon the topic now if you're willing to abandon his office. But the pure confusion fit so well to your features, and he catches it reluctantly from the corner of his eye. Another loud sigh escapes his lips, disturbing the fine layer of dust coating everything in the room. He waits for the dust to settle before he speaks again, Insistent on verbally battering the understanding into your head.

"Saix was forced out onto the streets once more. Not by me, Saix is my second-hand around here. I think his conscience drove him out, Urged him to replace the disaster he'd welcomed into our home. He had to look for talent. A rare thing on these streets. Strangely, He found it soon after his search began. Although he still fought his inner demons about discarding Demyx".

And you understand Saix' inner turmoil. You wouldn't be so eager to brush aside someone like Demyx. He may have lost his passion or fighting, but his passions had lay elsewhere, between some stranger's bed sheets. He had talent, But of a different nature. Perhaps Demyx' lack of ability to deal with rejection had resulted in him going A.W.O.L.

"He trained his diamond in the rough. Anyone could see Saix had developed a soft spot, if not, feelings, for the new boy. Always there to defend him, to teach him. And just like that, Demyx got kicked to the kerb once more. Saix had immediately seen more potential in his new recruit than Demyx was ever capable of".

You feel a little winded, understanding Demyx' feelings, the hurt and rejection. You had faced it yourself in your own badly written history. Taking second place to Cloud, The brother with the world in his hands, not on his shoulders. The beautiful little boy with all the potential, the charming personality, and you were all the traits left over. A bad attitude, cynical, a dying enthusiasm. They didn't bother to fix you.

Just let you work yourself into a state of disrepair.

"Ironically, The new blood that rustled Demyx' feathers was someone who belonged to you".

You glance up, a renewed interest in where his story is heading. This is your grand entrance; this is your mention in his own twisted history. There's a common link between you now.

"Cloud" he says simply, and your world once more takes a tumble around your ankles.

You had your suspicions about Cloud's street involvement, had begged him time and time again to take you with him. You wanted to ruin yourself by his side. Each time he'd smile wearily, blinking him out of a heavy daze, wave his hand limply at you, and attempt to brush you away. He'd insist in slow, well thought out words, that he wasn't interested in joining the street parades. He had about as much involvement as you had. Continuously claimed he'd met a girl, advertised his relationship as true love. You knew better.

It wasn't love flashing in his eyes, there was desire, but his interests had led elsewhere. He wasn't looking for love; He was looking for life, unaware that he already held everything you'd ever wanted. He held everyone's attentions and affections, and he was willing to let that go, just to feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears, to here the empty click of a gun barrel by his ears, to feel the worn hands wrapped tightly around his throat. Your brother had a fetish for death. And he had stepped all over your life to get what he had wanted, but you were not the only victim in his rising. It seems Demyx had doubled as a door mat for your darkly ambitious brother in the past. Demyx had been forced to take second place to a man clearly superior to him in every way. No surprise he left. You would have left, had your brothers' murder not occurred in such a short space of time.

You had Demyx had a lot more in common than you'd initially assumed. You were both rejects for the same man. Suddenly the urge to hold his hand and tell him 'I know' is incredible, You have to ball your fists at your side and chew your bottom lip, An action Xemnas mistakes for the same rage he fell victim to earlier.

"Demyx' reckless abandon signalled the beginning of the end for us. Where initially 13 of us stood strong, His little hands tore us to shreds."

You nod. Still shell-shocked by your own realisations. Xemnas watches you, Reads your face, and Catalogues your expressions.

"Where is he now?" he asks, Voice low, all the intimidation seeping back in. This conversation is quickly drawing to a dangerous close. You shake your head, your neglected bangs tickling your nose.

Xemnas snorts.

"Not Axel. I'll deal with him later. Where's Demyx?"

He's captured your attention. He's offered you all the information you could have wanted, some of it, you didn't want. And all he asks in return is a location. If you knew Demyx' whereabouts right now, you'd be there, tasting his skin and feeling something human between your hands.

Love isn't supposed to be specific.

But this isn't love.

This is just convenience.

"The last time I saw him," you croak, clutching you throat in surprise, "Was at the club. The blonde stripper".

He doesn't understand the reference until you touch your lips, Run trembling fingers over the cracked skin, Much the same way you'd done after Demyx' brutal kiss. Another reaction he reads right. He watches you, His anger rising up between his teeth, doesn't interfere until in your dazed state, your hand snakes under the band of your khakis.

"The girl from the club".

You nod. Uneasy.

"He was teasing me. Just playing to see if I'd recognise him".

You nod again. Desperate to see the sky once more. Now who's facing rejection?

He buries a fist in the desk, the wood shattering and splintering around the raw power. His teeth bared Hissing and spitting like some sort of wild animal. This is your signal to leave, and you can't run fast enough. Bursting out of his office like the oxygen was gold. You can breathe again.

Xigbar's leaning in a doorway opposite. A mouldy mattress, Springs protruding like ribs through brittle skin. This man obviously has a strange fondness for looming in doorframes. For the first time, He doesn't look like he's willing to tease you, Concern etched into his face. You're unsure whether it's for you, Or Xemnas, tearing his office apart as payback for his own stupidity. From Xigbar's reaction, you assume he's overheard your conversation.

"Maybe you should tell Axel, kid. Wouldn't want to have to bury another brotherly figure, Wouldja?" he asks.

And although all the usual references are there, the words that would suggest he's just using you for amusement until someone better stumbles along, His tone is serious. His one eye watches you closely, Determined and insistent. You feel hallow. A bad omen. You're sending these people to their graves. Axel's something you don't want to say goodbye to. To face the idea that you'll never see him again overwhelms you with something relative to homesickness. As much as you hate to admit it, you've grown dependant.

What did he mean, 'Bury another'?

You break into a desperate run. Not sure where you going, But excited to be there. The latest information you've gathered spin in your head, making you dizzy. Some things are clearer, while others become more of a mystery. You now know of Demyx' relationship with the gang. He'd abandoned them because of your brother, Who Saix had discovered. And now rumours of the relationship between Saix and your brother. You don't know how to interpret that. Cloud could never say no. He was everyone's golden boy. Cloud's easy entrance highlighted Demyx' failure in the group, and he abandoned ship, Looked for a 'career' he could do more damage in. And now he walks the streets advertising his skin. Axel has lied, Spent years lying to his superiors, Saix and Xemnas. A brave and screamingly stupid move. He'd been ordered to kill Demyx, But as Kairi said, had great difficulties pulling the trigger. And Xemnas had mentioned Xigbar's inability to punish the boy. Perhaps Demyx was a little smoother than people were willing to give him credit for. One question rattles around in your head, echoing a little louder than the others.

If Xemnas viewed Demyx as such a useless weakling, a burden. Why had a felt the need to send Axel, An apparently skilled assassin, after him?

Why did Xemnas want Demyx dead so badly?


	18. Are You Ready To Exist Again?

**This is all Roxas' inner workin's, 'Cause i haven't given him a personality, 'Cause i don't want him to have one. I just want him to be a medium for everyone else. But yeah. He's so 2D here. And despite how short and stupid it is, This one's REEEEEEEEEEALLY important.**

**I'm sick, And i'm tired, So if you read this, Cheers for gettin' through all the mistakes.**

* * *

All you can say is 'fuck' today, 'cause she was beautiful.

Sometimes you miss your old life, these snippets of black and white, frozen faces in happier times, pinned to your walls at random intervals. Just a reminder that once upon a time, you knew how to smile.

Once upon a time, you had reason to.

That girl could stand next to you, and in that instant all your flaws became screamingly obvious. Beauty and the beast. Next to her, the dirty tear streaks on sinking cheeks became blatant, the blood on your shirt, the piss stains on your pants.

People had said what you shared was true love. And that's all it could have been. You never had to pay her.

That blond girl, her face pinned to the ceilings and walls, lips curled to a gentle smile, glossy blue eyes watching but not seeing. You always found it hard to deal with loss. She was the lover you couldn't let go of, too addicted to feeling your hands on her, in her.

Namine. Her pure white light, blinding and brilliant, a beacon of sanity to you. She never explained how she came to rot here in the ugly streets of death and disaster. She'd smile, run her fingers across the flaking concrete, turn those eerily blue orbs towards you and tell you she never liked living up to people's expectations. You'd snort in amusement, trace your fingers dangerously close to hers and tell her you could never manage to live up to anyone's expectations. At least she had the choice not to. And all the time she'd watch you, her eyes sad and empty, mirroring all your feelings straight back to you.

Human communication wasn't such an issue for you before Clouds death.

You'd started out as a joke, the two of you, timidly holding hands. She'd blush at the sound of your voice. Evidence daddy's little rich girl had wandered far from her element.

Hayner would sit, hunched and worn, a decaying shadow in a corner of the old hangout. He'd tease, and taunt, the glowing tip of the cigarette dangling from his lips the only indication he's there. His brutal words of encouragement drove you into the strangest relationship you'd ever be forced to endure.

Something as innocent as holding hands became a promise of events later. Everything was a little more than nothing. Every word she spoke needed to be picked apart, studied. It was a competition of patience, and although you quickly abandoned the tracks, her mindfuck games grated each nerve, slow and steady, achingly painful with her beautiful bright smile.

This room, she's touched every inch of it, her fingerprints remain, the harsh reminder of your past together. And regardless of how desperate you were, how much time you dedicated to scrubbing and shining, working the room over with a fine tooth comb, desperate to erase her, you still kept her, you still pasted those photographs around the walls, supporting them physically, supporting you mentally.

You remember the first time she came here. The pale, watery rays of last light poured through your windows, eerie shapes and shadows thrown across the white-washed walls. She stood by the window ledge, watching the nightlife, watching a life that she can't seem to grasp, flutter by, just beyond reach. The sun lights up empty rooms across the skyline, glistening off glass, a gleaming white light. The city looks alive. The people look dead. An ugly contrast that puts a smile on her face.

"It's beautiful" she'd murmured, her voice raw from lack of use, her eyes wide with an obsessive fascination. You're so absorbed in a discarded school report thrown to the floorboards; you'd failed to notice her step out of her dress.

"You're beautiful" you replied, absentmindedly, not much interested in what you had to say, just focused on maintaining her focus a little while longer. She'd sighed, casting an inviting look over her shoulder. In the dying light her blonde hair glowed, like embers. The sun had set it ablaze, a burning red. Ocean coloured eyes hued lavender in the strange tones. Her eyes tell the story her lips won't dare to imitate. They're not warm, she's not asking for love, she disregards affection, hardly dwells on the idea of a future. The look of raw need in those eyes is enough to irritate the slumbering butterflies in your tummy. Even need is a feeling the street people have written off as 'unnecessary'.

You'd never capture this again.

"Namine. Stay like that for me," you'd muttered, already burrowing your way through the organised mess gathering by your door. The relief when your run your fingers along the worn buttons of your brothers old camera. You couldn't peel your eyes from her; soaked up the last of those strong feelings before she bled herself dry. You fumbled, your fingers desperately jabbing buttons, the dying beeps not so reassuring. You ccould't break eye contact; this is something you want to hold onto. You can keep it, for when she comes back to her senses.

When she leaves.

Her modesty is back, arms folded gingerly across her chest, nervous eyes dart to the door, to the cityscape acting as her perfect backdrop.

"Please" you'd whispered, camera poised, eyes begging. She'd processed the words, watched you the entire time, searched for that same desperation in your eyes, and sighed half-heartedly when she realised you'd lost it. You gave that to your mother.

Dangerously thin arms, skin like paper, fluttered to her sides, hung uselessly. The light set her skin aglow, her eyes burning with something a little more than need now. Gradually, the camera clicked in time with your heartbeat, her expressions melted back across her features. She remembered how to smile, and how to hate. And she showed it to you. A grin on her lips, violence in her eyes. These people are so hard to understand, but you convince yourself you've no time to hear all their stories, you're still determined to end yours, focusing desperately on a 'happily ever after'.

As much as you'd sneak the alcohol once she'd drifted to sleep, you couldn't deny the only words you spoke to each other were safety words.

Those pictures hang from your walls now. Her eyes watching you with that kaleidoscope of emotion you can't begin to understand, so you just watch with a detached interest.

In one, she lies across your mattress, Skin tangled in the sheets, blonde hair mussed, blue eyes glossed. A quick glance at that photograph would almost make you believe she loved you.

Almost.

Your brother was reported dead the next day.

You've lay lonely on this mattress ever since.

She'd said she couldn't stand being around you anymore, your attitude like some sort of emotional black hole. She wanted all your attentions, demanded your focus and your effort. With the news of the disaster, your energy was directed at your self-pity, your self-loathing, your silent rage. And all the words 'self' suggest she wasn't involved. She left. And it took you that long to realise you were separate people. You got so caught up living her life with her, as some under priced accessory; you'd forgotten your own life had drifted to a stop.

And as you mull over all these thoughts, a distant smile painted across your lips, you struggle your way to the wall, dotted in pictures of a happier past. The biro is clutched so tight between your fingers; your knuckles turn a shocking shade of white. The white sheets hang low on your concave hips, the gentle sunlight pours across the floorboards, everything reminding you of her.

Weather doesn't stop and start. Each condition transforms into the next. There is no plain limbo. It can be raining one moment, and sunny the next. The clouds clear, it's a fluid action, No starts and stops. And to you, that's what love is. A smooth transaction. To fall out of love with Namine, You'd have to fall in love with someone else, and you know that, but for some reason, this feels clarified. And maybe there's something left hiding in that little heart of yours. Even as you dig the biro into the perfect pale plains of her face, captured frozen, you smile and convince yourself, 'I haven't fallen in love. This is just boredom'. But even you don't believe yourself.

There's clattering from downstairs, Bottles shattering and tinkling across the tiles. Doors slamming and your father's ragged breathing echoing up the stairs. This is your call from reality. From sanity. You're pressed against the wall, against the photographs, the ink splattering across the crumpled memories. The sheets pool at your ankles, your fingertips dotted in the ink across your pale chest, a tell-tale trail, leading down to between your thighs.

Scurrying to bunch the worn fabric once more around your hips, you press your ear to the door enjoying the harsh feeling of the splintering wood scratching at your cheek. Your father's frantic, Ranting and raving, His voice hitting odd notes in his hysterical state. You should be concerned, but you figure it's a waste of your time. One of his fits is long overdue.

This is a necessary evil in your life.

Few words reach your ears, hardly decipherable over the heavy pants escaping your lips.

'Anniversary'. The death.

'My boy'. Cloud.

'The bastard'. You.

You know your role and you play it well.

You hear the gentle click of the door handle before you realise you've intentions of leaving the room and walking defenceless into the firestorm raging downstairs. But your feet don't carry you to the creaky landing, or the cool tiles of the bathroom. Instead, you stand before Cloud's door.

It's shut, like it has been since he wrote his epilogue. What you wouldn't give to hear his voice, toneless and bored, drawling from the other side of the door, His own private world.

Inviting you in. Telling you to 'fuck off'.

Telling you he loves you. Telling you he hates you.

To hear him breath his last breath once more would suffice. This eerie silence unnerves you. Your fingers curl around the filthy brass of the door handle before you can decide whether or not to invade.

Your room are imitations of the people who live in them. Who lived in them. Both the same, the same size, shape, the same light, the same dark, and yet, his was more human. Proof of a teenage boy still leading a healthy, happy life. Your room pasted with pain, just a hollow imitation. Inferior to his.

Just like you were inferior to him.

His walls are supported by colour, Posters in languages you can't understand. Women with strange make-up. He has his own dwindling collection of photographs, and you're quick to run your trembling fingers over them. Trace the people he once knew. Maybe this is how he lived in here, Dwelling on happier memories, struggling through each day, reluctant to see the next.

One catches your attention, Tacked low, Close to the head of his bed. Maybe every night he'd lie there, hopeful that tomorrow would forget to visit him. He could be confident in knowing that the people in that photograph would be the last people he'd see. You're confident you're not in it. You were lost to him once the streets spread like a virus in his blood. The same virus that killed him.

You lean across the cool crisp sheets, hands quickly tangling in the scent of your brother. The realisation he'll never see this sending shivers up your spine.

He's smiling. It's the first thing you notice. It sets off an ache in your chest, a fire in your eyes. Jealousy is the most dangerous weapon.

His arm curled around an emerald eyed girl, Soft hazel curls framing her face. She leans into him, sucking him up before he can abandon her. Just like he abandoned you. Smug is the only word you can imagine.

Beside him lingers the hunched, feral figure of Saix, Golden eyes glowing with his eagerness, or his stupidity. You wonder how old this photo is as you stroke the fraying corners.

Just as you reach to pin the photo once more to the wall, hardly willing to admit your presence here, something steals your attention. Achingly blue eyes gazing sadly from the past. The pull at your heart strings, tie them tight around your throat. This memory must have been stolen from only months before Cloud met his end. The little boy with his fists shoved deep in his pockets, His hair dishevelled, a lost look painted across his face. You're confident it's Demyx. And you can't seem to find reason why it wouldn't be. Demyx would want to be the last thing you'd see before you died.

You briefly wonder what flashed before Cloud's eyes before he died.

These thoughts and feelings combined are enough to force you into retreat, into the heavy heat, the dullness of your own room.

You sit on your bed, Drag your eyes lazily over the blind photographs, Namine's powerful stare blotted out by the ink, your own personal revenge.

You wonder if Cloud thought about you before he died.

You wonder if you'd think about him.

"I need to talk to you" you mumble, startling the silence.

If you were to look in the mirror right now, you'd hate what you'd see.

Are you ready to exist again?

* * *

**I remember what i wanted to say again! The whores that were teasin' Roxas on the street a few chapters ago, Were Rikku and Yuna. Just tryin' to cram everyone in!**

* * *


	19. Cotton Mouth And Bare Feet

**Here we go again ..**

* * *

By the time you pull yourself from the black and white memories, a drizzle has started. The droplets trickle down the window pane, blurring your vision of the city below. You assume 'blurry' is the only way to view this city and view something worthwhile. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, But your eyes hold nothing but hollow now.

You dress with your back to the world, not interested in facing reality these days, more focused on what's already been. The things you can't change, because at least then, you don't have to make much of an effort.

Your skin is burning, the beginnings of a fever. Your throat dry, like you've choked on cotton wool. Cotton or questions, there's still a painful friction in your throat. Your pants don't fit anymore, hanging low; you clench the fabric in your fists, an effort to pull them tight against the bones stabbing through your skin. You hadn't realised you'd neglected to eat. Those butterflies brushing against your insides are enough to keep you alive.

You finally convince yourself to steal a glance at the chipped mirror. Against the pale paint scheme, the bland colours of your room, the white walls and the fading floors, your flaws are once more highlighted by the teasing bright white light. Your skin is bruised, Blotchy, and you've forgotten when you lost interest in your body. You'd always trusted others to care for it.

Namine, Hayner.

You've no one left, and your body has long since run into a state of disrepair. An abandoned shell, its common knowledge your mind wanders far when given the chance.

Pale blue eyes are rimmed in harsh rouge shades, The Ocean in those eyes evaporating and disappearing. Your lips are chapped and pale, dried blood in teeth marks. Your cheeks sunken. You can't recall where the devastating chain reaction began, but your body is the ultimate reward. The ultimate curse.

Your ribs reach through the canvas of skin stretched across your skeleton, like fingers tearing through plastic. All these sharp angles and jutting edges through harsh shadows across your body. As much as you deserve this, you can't face yourself right now.

Your trip down the stairs, like walking on thin ice, your father some dangerous predator circling beneath. Torn papers mark his trail through the house. Bills and apologies. His personal and his public life spread across the carpets. Some read 'urgent', some read 'apologies'. Sometimes it gets difficult to separate the two.

You're hugging the wall, Face pressed against the cracked plasterboard. This isn't insecurity, this isn't fear. You crave the cool they offer. As if this body isn't evidence enough.

You're sick, Roxas.

But you're not looking for medical help. You need mental reassurance.

"Roxas".

It's not a question. He's already sensed you. He can hear your heart thumping in his ears. You don't answer, aware he doesn't expect one. There's not much left in your vocabulary to impress your father.

There's not much left in your body to impress him.

"Roxas. Go back to your room. You look terrible".

Another closed statement, No room for argument, No room to breathe. He's indifferent; Tone something rarely leaking into your father's voice.

He's watching you through the banisters, angry, sparking red eyes. If looks could kill, He'd have you nailed to the walls. Your death is his salvation. Hate is nothing common to father son bonds, but it's all you have.

In his hand he clutches the remainder of the envelopes, still intact. He'll rip them up; Leave a trail so he can navigate his way back around the house, Chase himself in endless, pointless circles. You'd leave him to his devices, happily watch him wear trenches in the floors with his frantic pacing, but you see them same habits blooming in your reflection. And maybe a little part of you is willing to improve.

"I'm going out for some air. Thought I might go visit Cloud."

The sentence has hardly escaped your mouth before the envelopes flutter to the floor and he's only inches from your face, Teeth bared like a rabid animal.

"Leave him alone. Stop bothering him".

He hisses the words through clenched teeth, a spray of saliva across your chalky face. You're frantically searching through the filing system in your mind, looking for a response, looking for a defence, desperately trying to clarify your actions, although he provides no reasons for preventing you from seeing your brother.

"Dad! Please, I just want to speak to him".

He visibly flinches, Draws back. And you see all the flaws in your response, but you're unsure which one he's reacting to. Surely admitting you only wanted to speak to Cloud is an admittance of your failing mental health. You purse your lips, willing yourself to trap the words inside your mouth, inside your head. Where they can case no one trouble but yourself.

"What did you call me?" he asks after a weighty silence. His voice is low, threatening. A dangerous growl. You're suddenly achingly aware of the gleaming teeth glinting behind his tight lips. Your irrational fear takes control, As if he could leap the banisters and tear you limb from limb with his teeth.

As if he'd get caught?

As if they'd bother with your unfortunate, premature end, Instead of filing you away as some case they may look into when the street wars finally fade out.

You see your mistake; eagerly jump to correct it, Desperate to redeem yourself for the chance to escape these decaying walls.

"Vincent. Please."

He watches you, something you assume to be amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. But feelings and emotions are irrelevant; His face stays stiff as cardboard. Those eyes still simmer beneath dark lashes.

You've run out of excuses, and the truth bleeds from you before you can stop it.

"I just want to go".

You sound exhausted, life easily defeating you, the heat of the red stare searing your skin. You can almost smell the burnt skin; you can hear the crackling and pop of bones as the blister in the heat. And all the time he just watches you, although his anger increases like electricity in the air. He wants you to leave; you can't begin to understand where the problem is.

You're all he has left, He'll hold onto you, brushing his hatred to one side for the time being.

He glances up the staircase, Eyes resting on the shut door on the landing. The room that held his treasure before that treasure found its wings. Cloud never flew though, He crashed and burned. The gaze he fixes you with almost convinces you, you're brothers death was all your fault, and for a fleeting moment, you swear you held the gun that spread his thoughts like red water across the concrete.

"What were you doing in there? I heard you".

He manages to make every statement sound like the end of a conversation. Every word is a promise of pain. The fists are curled by his sides, Knuckles bruised and bleeding. You'll look for the fresh hole in the wall later. Right now, you focus on avoiding the inevitable face to fist contact.

And you can't tell him.

The words don't come, the mouth hands lifeless. The lips hardly shape sounds. You have no idea what led you to his door, to the photograph by his bed. Just a sudden curiosity. You have photographs of your history on your wall. You just craved a brief glimpse into his past.

The History of a car crash.

You're recent tangle in your brothers twisted affairs, Left unsettled before his death, has dragged you further into his story, suddenly you want to know everything about the boy you've lived with for years. You can hardly piece together an excuse to satisfy your fathers ridiculously towering standards.

"Roxas. Just get out."

He cradles his head in his hand, rubbing his brow in frustration. You're just satisfied those eyes are directed elsewhere. He still maintains that painful monotone.

This is the same man that raised you. You fight the urge to snort. No surprise your emotional understanding is an area in which you severely lack. Cloud may have captured your mother's eyes, the same brave glint in the blue depths. Their golden hair. But Cloud had been raised to be Vincent. Hard, Cold, Unfeeling, Inconsiderate. All the traits you learned to expect from people. All the traits you learned to respect in people.

With his attentions on a particular intact note on the floor, you seize your chance at freedom, gliding down the last few steps, breaking into a frantic run as soon as you feel the fresh air on your face. This drizzle is refreshing. It spreads like tears down your cheeks, Cold wet trails collecting along your jaw.

These are the tears you can't cry.

The streets are empty today. Discarded bottles and fluttering notes of money the only evidence that people were once here. Girls in bright colours hunch in doorways, and you hear the whispered words achingly loud, Banging against the inside of your skull. You feel their stares, pressure on your already fizzling skin. It's not long before rumours reach your ears, Stories of one of the higher powers venturing their way out of their safe house, developing a sudden interest in what they fight to control.

You shudder, not so eager to encounter any of the strange characters you've met in the short time you've spent trapped in their depraved little story.

Your feet carry you once more to Cloud. A natural reaction, something you no longer bother to fight. He can't brush you aside any longer, it gets lonely 6 feet under.

And suddenly the trees are reaching into your visions, Nature devouring the tattered buildings. Green is so rare these days.

There's shadows looming, More shapes among the graves than normal. One in particular stealing your attention, the strange, blue tinted hair cascading down his back difficult to ignore.

Saix is hunched above Cloud, His mouth moving wordlessly, His breath forming uneven puffs of steam in the air. And you watch with fascination, Careful to linger behind the boundary wall, Terrified of confrontation with the raging berserker.

You're thankful you can't read his eyes from here.

You're thankful you can't see his life from here.

While most are content to life their plain lives, striving for happiness. Saix enjoys the twists and turns, life's little torments. A human being too complicated for you to begin to understand. And yet, He shows control.

To creep nearer would be suicide, but the desire greatly outweighs the common sense.

Words begin to develop from the white noise. His voice low and calm. Different from your fathers. Different from the Saix you've seen before. He's natural now, worn, but there's concern in his voice. Care. He seems softer, despite the harsh angles carved into his face. He's found a friend in the inanimate stone marking your brother's death.

"- I can't do it again. You'll understand".

His words are hesitant. You've never seen Saix as a cautious person.

He's taken your role in the conversation you had with your father earlier. Hesitant. Reluctant. Cloud fits Vincent's role perfectly. Even if he were alive, the silence Saix receives would be guaranteed.

"Xemnas says he's already in trouble. A lot of secrets are being revealed. We're running out of time".

"I knew what was going to happen. I'm sorry for what was done to you, Cloud."

He bows his head, an offering of respect before he steals himself away, Disappearing back into the concrete his grown accustomed to.

And you file his words away, your mind ticking over them, searching for meanings, Clues, Anything. Anything to distract you from the friendship shared between Saix and your brother. You could not see those golden eyes, but you're confident the feelings ran a little deeper than 'BFF'.

You're not here to discover anything about the matters of his heart; you're here to find out who stopped it.

You drag your world-weary body through the stone markers, eyes fixed in his, the patches of yellow among the green, where the grass has been burnt away. Axel's been here. He's arrived here previously, seeking guidance. Maybe some of the puddles dotted around the grave are tears, Stray emotions that have no place among the brickwork jungle.

"Cloud. I'm here. But I don't want to be."

Silence.

"I promised myself I'd never follow in your footsteps. I never want to be like Vincent. I'd thought you'd be smart, that you'd feel the same."

The sound of someone choking through their cigarette smoke reaches you from across the graveyard.

"And yet here I am, trapped in your story, just 'cause you couldn't finish it out."

The rain's heavier now, Beating across the stone, No rhythm, just like your life at the moment.

"I know who loved you Cloud. Tell me who hated you."

And suddenly it's you walking in those pointless circles, following the paper trail of money demands and apologies. Maybe you're a little more like Vincent than you'd like to admit.

* * *

**Haha, This is part II of the last chapter. I'm so tired lately, I can't get what i'm thinking down in words. Sat up until the wee hours of the morning watching documentaries on giant squids and being dehydrated.  
**

**Anywho, Yeah, I know Vince-meister isn't in KH and all, But every time i wrote Roxas' pops, I thought of him. I actually like him, Despite writing him as a bastard. And Namine's A-ok to, But she's bitchin' hard to write. So i based her on someone i know.**

**Has anyone figured it out yet?**


	20. Lip Service Makes Us Look Great

**Very 'foreshadowing' .. If that's the word i'm looking for .. If that's even a word ...**

* * *

As you drag yourself through the frozen mud, you become wary of the bodies stored beneath. Suddenly, in the bleary sunlight, your nerves play games with your mind, and you're just left to suffer at their expense. You can hear noises, abandoned lovers calling out to their better halves buried beneath the earth. More victims to the concrete battles.

A quick glance over your shoulder assures you, everyone else has surrendered hope but you. No one remains here to pray for their dead, they struggle on with their own lives. What's gone is forgotten. These people are as hard as the frozen dirt they bury loved ones under. The smell of rotten flesh and damp earth forces your throat into painful contractions, Shadows of trees lean and stretch across the scattered rows of stone markers. Your imagination convinces you these shadows reach for you; tear at your clothing when your head is turned. With spindly fingers and featureless faces.

Smoke rises, slow and steady, gentle, fluffy puffs of white against the steel coloured sky. The source remains hidden behind the boundary walls, And inside you're torn as to whether or not to investigate. You're paranoia excels at internal propaganda.

There's something inviting about the twists and curls of the smoky tendrils, Fingers reaching towards the sky. It's a homely image, and once again all motor functions spin from your control, your feet begin their own trek across the yard between the shuffled rows. By the time you reach the gate, Limp hands curled weakly around its iron railings, you've resumed your internal argument, one side daring you to investigate, the other side begging you to run. You swallow hard, an audible gulp, like swallowing an entire apple. Your mouth doesn't even have time to form the question before a familiar voice wraps you once more in that homely comfort.

"Okay?"

He speaks low, a cracking whisper, some sort of twisted respect for the dead. You briefly wonder how many of these deaths he's responsible for. How many families has this boy torn apart with those scorch-marked hands? Is his conscience as blood-soaked as his hands? A while new meaning to the term 'caught red-handed'.

"Axel".

Just to assure him you've heard. You may be losing your mind, but your hearing remains intact.

A cigarette hangs limp from his pale lips, the source of the coiling smoke above his head. His eyes are closed, His cheeks pale. It's times like these you wonder if Axel is already aware he has a problem.

An addict of all trades, Death and alcohol just more vices to his list.

You've never told him how much you know. Unfortunately your knowledge and understanding of this demon boy only go as far as his career. The bad life decisions he's made working under Xemnas.

When you'd be playing truth or dare with Hayner, This red-haired kid would be out playing angel of death, breaking all the rules as he went. He's still playing the game. Still bending the rules and running away when he senses defeat. And he stands here now, making an effort to display some sort of consideration, perfecting a look of innocence for future reference.

He's dressed decently today, no leather, no straps, no nets, and no skin. His hoodie is worn thin at the elbows, the name of some government training facility scrawled across his chest. You can only assume this is some attempt at sick humour, Shinra being the name of the government party determined to put a stop to the fighting. And yet he wears their logo with pride, a daring cockiness, a smile that suggests he's working on the, 'they'll never suspect their own' theory. You don't bother wondering how he got his filthy hands on Shinra exclusives; it's just another aspect of him you can't possibly begin to understand. You shake your head, a balanced mix of exhaustion and defeat. This boys runs rings around you every time, And you can just stop and watch him speed through is life while yours wanders away from your grasp.

"What're you doing here?" you ask, carefully watching his eyes, measuring his sickness, guessing his drug of choice for today. From his lazy posture and slow, pronounced words, you assume he's already been on a treasure hunt today, searching at the ends of various bottles for something valuable.

His conscience perhaps.

Or his sanity.

He doesn't glance at you, Tinted eyelashes still brushing his cheeks, Acid eyes hidden from the strange light. A slow gesture with his hand suggests you should lower your voice, a slight grimace creeping across his lips. You quickly glance among the ruined graves, seeing none of the shadows you'd speculated about earlier. No people linger, Terrified of allowing emotions and experiences to resurface. The headache he suffers now is the terrible aftertaste to a horrible binge.

"Hadn't seen you in a while." He murmurs, words eventually slipping and sliding together, melting into one indecipherable sentence. His breathing his heavy, His hands knotted in the stonework of the wall, a vain attempt at balance.

You're not willing to settle for a vague answer, not now, not when he's already bleeding alcohol, the deadly truth serum. Now you can scratch right to his core, Picking up scrapes of information as you go, collecting the secrets he's stored carefully in his head for son long. Crack him open and rob the sweets inside. The temptation is incredible.

"How'd you know I was here?".

Your tone is indifferent, you're aware he can only decipher words, and not the emotions behind them. Alcohol's pretty fingers are wrapped tight around his common sense, strangling him to stupidity.

He shakes his head, a gentle swaying, so slight; you wonder if maybe a breeze caused it. He raises a hand to his head, digging two fingers into his temple, pushing with enough force to make you cringe. His mouth barely twitches with the pain, you imagine instead, all that agony has been transported to his eyes, the empty green oceans hidden behind dark lashes. The effort to peel his eyes open makes him groan, a noise highly inappropriate for your surroundings. You blush a little despite yourself. Before long that dangerous green settles on you. A shade you've never been introduced to before, a green that only results from a chemical fire. It enthrals you. As stupid as you feel, you'd feel worse for breaking eye contact. The green is framed in exhausted shades of purples and scarlet, the red bleeding into his eyes, long, spindly veins reaching out to capture the acid in their palms.

He looks like his world's collapsed.

Inside you're smiling.

"Kiddo, you're either here, Or with Demyx, and I figure that kid's skipped town already".

Suddenly you don't feel much like smiling; it's fallen from your face and fluttered to the dirt. He's too poor to pay attention. Those blazing eyes tilt to the heavens, He searches the ash coloured clouds for the answers to his life. He's determined not to meet your eyes again until he's found something relevant scratched in the sun.

So Demyx has abandoned his toy town, or so Axel speculates. You can hardly say he's stolen your heart. It's not his to take; it's hardly yours to keep. You divided that long ago, between your brother and your other.

Cloud and Namine.

Demyx has stolen your time, stolen your attentions. Things he can't seem to be bothered returning. Subconsciously you touch your fingertips to your lips, a gesture you've gradually found comfort in. It's all he left you, the ugly coppery taste in your mouth. Blood and alcohol. Axel sees your quirk, Watches it with a concerned interest, Waits for you to snap out of your trance before fixing you with a warning stare. And yet, you don't feel he's concerned about your relationship with another boy your age.

You settle for scratching out the word relationship, instead using 'encounter'. Axel seems more focused on the person you've become tangled with, figuratively and literally. He doesn't approve of Demyx, that plainly written across his features. The background between them is still a hazy blur of green and blue. Red and blonde. Guns and PVC.

He doesn't know you know.

Your life lately has been emotionally draining, driving you to sickness, steering you towards insanity. All you can do is buckle up and pray. Squeeze your eyes shut tight Roxas. This isn't a bumpy ride. It's just straight downhill. You're weak and you're weathered, and still you manage to stay on the barely legal side of twenty one. Life experience is not something you lack. You let out a sigh, you're body hunching in the recoil. The words are low as you speak, your voice cracking. But you're confident there's no tears involved.

"I'm going home".

Your not sure he's going to follow, Not particularly interested, But he stubs out his cigarette on the broken stone of the wall, and balances another behind his ear. He slaps his hands together, Eyes still watching the sky, like he's expecting something. In his eyes you can see him running through memories, scanning his life. He's been thinking. A lot. Matters from the past painted across his face. That in itself is cause for your alarm.

Your turn to walk away, Once again leaving your brother behind. Every day you do this, and every day it tears you up a little more. Axel's footsteps follow, His gentle step, the soft crunch of grass. He's out of time with your footsteps, with your heartbeat. Your concentration tricks you, Making you deaf and blind to Axel, and yet the fact that an assassin, Raging at life, follows you silently does not worry you. And you guess there is some contact between you. You're nor one extreme or the other. Not lovers, not enemies. Your relationship drifts somewhere in between and for the time being, you've both settled on calling it something relative to friendship. You snort defeated amusement. This red-haired, green-eyed scribble on life's plans has become your best friend.

You don't even know his full name.

His arm across your shoulders startles you, a breathy gasp escaping your lips. He laughs close to you ear, Slow and sadistic. You imagine this is how he sounds before he finishes off someone else's life story. But the look in his eyes is all wrong. He looks like he needs this. You offer a weak smile, attempting to brighten the sullen mood that's been slowly growing. He only watches you, Watches the curl of your lips as if it's something completely alien. There's a fascination in his eyes you've never seen before, and thankfully is erases the look of distant thoughtfulness he'd been trapped in.

"Axel. Tell me something. I wanna know something about you".

It's not a question, it's a demand, and you're silently beaming, regarding the commanding tone of your voice. The uncharacteristic strength, you feel his arm tense around you, He glances away, into the horizon, another desperate search for answers and excuses. You nudge him gently, encouraging him, convincing him, reminding him you're still waiting. You're not going anywhere. His arm relaxes.

"There's not much to tell, Sorry Blondie".

He laughs, but it's a failing act, huge holes developing in his normally well formed masks. He's satisfied he's protected himself, But you're determined to hear him confirm something. Anything. The details Kairi had supplied you with. His career. You want it all. You need it now. You've always taken your time, Strolled through life, Satisfied with your own pace. Even after Cloud's death, your monotonous little story carried on much the same, any altered detail immediately throwing your routine off and annoying you in the process. And yet, the other morning after finally crawling from your safe haven under the duvet, you noticed your clock had stopped. And as ridiculous as it sounded, you can't help but notice how ominous it had been. Suddenly you're fighting time to discover something, and you have no idea where to start.

"What's your family like?"

He hesitantly retracts his arm, Slowing tearing it across your shoulders, Shoving a clenched fist deep in his pockets. The deep breath, the roll of his eyes. And you watch with increasing interest from the corner of your eye.

You've finally navigated your way into sensitive territory; the twist of pain on his lips is enough evidence enough of that. His pause seems permanent, the words caught in his throat; Trapped behind his teeth this is an issue not willing to talk itself out. Nimble fingers reach for the cigarette balanced atop his ear. This is his social barrier, His lips coiled around something familiar. He knows he can't form his excuses around the cancer wand. You know that all to well.

You interrupt before his retreat.

"You've met my brother. Do you have any brothers? Sisters?" You're desperate to keep his mouth moving, he's well aware, but he appreciates your attempts to form something human from him. He shakes his head, but a smile of amusement tell your there's more to come. His hand once more dives deep into his pockets; the cigarette remains his social escape hidden among the blood red tendrils.

"A brother actually. Just one."

You breathe a sigh of relief, this in an invitation, one you're willing to accept. He snorts once more, reluctant to supply you with a name. Perhaps he too has suffered an unfortunate death in his family, although he doesn't seem too concerned with locating the headstone, satisfied instead to haunt your brother's. The living haunting the dead. You nod your head, proving your interest in his personal life, but he's not watching you, Eyes fixated once more on the gathering shades of pewter in the sky.

"You don't have to worry about runnin' into him. He's never done his job properly." He doesn't elaborate, Keeps that knowing smile glued to his face. And he wears it so prettily. You can't study his features without craning your neck. You'd never noticed how much he towered above you. Do he and his brother share the same physical features?

"What does he do?" You ask before you remember imagining the question. You do well not to cover your mouth with a trembling hand, but once again, His attentions lie elsewhere, too absorbed in the natural world around him to notice the people in it.

"Works for Shinra", He declares, nodding vaguely to the logo stretched across his chest.

"Part of the 'Elite' street guard".

You shrug your shoulders, indicating how little you know about the government party promising to be your salvation. Sure, you've seen their name, Logos appearing on campaign posters littering the gutters. You seen the protests, Graffiti words scrawled across the concrete, declaring the words of Shinra's leader nothing but lies and empty promises. These streets don't want to be saved. You never heard much more, Just rumours of corruption, Death among their ranks.

A twisted party out to save your twisted little world.

This 'Elite' street team Axel mentions doesn't set off any alarms for you.

"Part of some sort of restoration committee. They say you can take the kid out of the slums, But you can't take the slums out of the kid. They assigned him the streets. A couple of years ago, when he was young, and green. The streets where a happier place. He had enthusiasm for his work back then. He put so many big names behind bars."

He says it with a foreign fondness in his voice, a strange respect for his brother. But you've noticed how he makes his references in the past tense, and you assume that this brother's death was the deciding factor for Axel.

"What happened?" you inquire quietly, Aware that this could be not only sensitive, but a grating issue in Axel's mind. The last thing you want is to add fuel to his fire. He shrugs His composure back to that barely interested indifference.

"He found out what his little brother did for a living."

A pause. You both process the impact of his words.

"Sure, he could fight the streets, each arrest another step on the way to perfection" he announces with all the fake enthusiasm of a telemarketer selling a product they know nothing about, "But he could never fight me. I became part of the streets, and he started to neglect his work, Just to avoid confrontation".

You nod, pretending to at least grasp the complicated relationship he shares with his bother.

"He's one of those punks, Yah'know? Foul mouth and bloody knuckles. But he's a big wimp when it comes to his family".

He genuinely laughs this time, Finding amusement in the character of his elder brother, Not realising those same traits have bled into him over the years. And you smile at the irony.

"And what is it you do?" you pry, Aware this is getting a little tight on his vocal chords. These are the things he'd rather keep secret, but you've led him down the garden path, it's too late to turn back now.

You don't glance at him, Instead pay close attention to the route you usually take home, the same route you've walked for years. To meet his eyes now would unnerve him.

"You're a smart boy, tiny; surely you've already figured me out. I'm not very good at secrets". He smiles, a teasing smirk, like he already knows what you know. This conversation had initially started out with you playing him, tricking him into admittance. And now the tables have turned, He's the one playing now.

"I've heard rumours. Nothing solid," you lie, terrifying yourself at how naturally it comes. He nods, still smiling, sensing your lie. He interrupts your attempt at an excuse before the awkwardness has a chance to grow.

"Well, Short stuff, I take pride in my work, and lucky for you I'm feeling a little bragadocious today."

You glance up, Startled by the sudden change of mood. He seems happy again, to joke and laugh. You imagine speaking about his family would have been the thing to lighten the mood, not talking about killing people for scraps of cash. In a strange sense, Axel stepped into his brothers shoes, solving the street issues from the inside out. One big name at a time.

"Basically, I'm hired weaponry, For Xemnas. Maybe sometimes Saix. Well, Anyone who's still able to sign me a cheque".

His grin is disturbed, threatening to crack his skin. You try your best to look mildly surprised, but he's seen through your act before you have time to set it in place. Instead, you settle for continuous questioning, pounding him with questions, Career orientated, Careful not to veer off course, delicately avoiding the topic of his family.

"Are you good? At what you do?"

He nods in response, Mulling over the words, tasting them carefully before sharing them.

"The best." He clarifies, genuine pride on his face. And as much as you struggle, your main point of interest still lies in the character of his brother, the nameless relative with whom he shares a seemingly battered relationship.

"You didn't go to work with your brother? You could have worked together to try improve this dump" you suggest, Kicking a can across the tarmac for emphasis, "You didn't have to become his enemy to help him, You'know". And your words in a round-a-bout way scream hypocrisy. You can't latch onto where exactly, Not until Axel speaks again, Clarifying for you, unwillingly.

"He's my brother. We're not the same person. I didn't want to live in his shadow for ever," he grumbles, and snippets of conversation between you and cloud spring to mind, a monologue that took place not so long ago.

"_Cloud I'm here, but I don't want to be_."

"_I promised myself I'd never follow in your footsteps._"

You've become so lost in your own thoughts; you don't notice that stick-thin arm creep once more around your shoulders, pulling you closer to its owner. His heated breath against the side of your neck. He already knows, if he wants to say something, And for it to have an impact on you, He needs you to be able to feel him. Now you're prepared for his life-changing comment, another head-fuck phrase that'll leave your mind restless for days.

"Don't get too absorbed in the street life, Roxas. This is a fucking pit trap. Once you're in, your time divides. We're all going to die here. I'd be lucky to see 21."

He draws back, Once more retreats from you, stealing his touch and his warm breath back for himself. Locks away his attentions once more.

You can't keep track of his mood swings any longer.

"So we're we goin' Sunshine?" He asks happily, a new bounce in his step, although he fails to cover up the weary eye with which he watches the street girls, Lining up in their rainbow leather and plastic gold. Cake-thick make-up and thinning hair. In his head he lists the number of these girls he's said 'I love you' to.

The blonde girl from days ago, with her braided hair and glossy eyes, Flicks at her bangs, waving at Axel. A slight curl of fingers on one hand, while she giggles manically. You don't bother watching his response, the jealousy making your head spin.

The buildings are growing taller, reaching towards the grey clouds and blurring out the sky. You may not see the sky from here, but you can see your life from here.

Axel's face suggests his wandering into unknown territory, His eyes running frantic, measuring buildings, mapping the alleyways. There is no colour here, the glittering prostitutes stealing their company to the places they can afford to stay. These are the outskirts of a very complicated battlefield. The decaying apartment blocks filled with the rejects of war, Women and young children. Old men and the educated, Not stupid enough to tarnish their names, But too stupid to leave. It's deathly quietly, not even the sounds of roaring alarms and high-pitched screaming reaching this dead zone. Somewhere a door bangs, Caught in an ill-timed breeze, Smashing of the concrete walls, Echoing like a heartbeat. The only life in this part of time.

Axel visibly hesitates, glancing suspiciously at you, like you orchestrated this, Just to see him squirm.

"C'mon" You grumble, making your way to the impatient wooden door, begging for your attention. The brass number nailed to the door glints harshly in the sunlight, and in the movement flickers like a silent alarm.

Another alert that this home is in a state of emergency.

Number 13.

The Strife household.

"Hate to flame on your parade," comes Axel's voice from a distance over your shoulder. A weak tremble confirms he's not so confident now, "But shouldn't you leave all of this 'investigating abandoned apartments' to Nancy Drew or somethin'? 10 bucks says that place is haunted".

You glance back to see him fold his arms defensively, Not watching you, But glaring up at the building, Willing it to fall, That green fire in his eyes burning bright among the dull shades of concrete.

You reach out to stop the door, hand clutching its frame, wood splintering beneath the pressure. There's a rancid smell from inside, and briefly you wonder if maybe your father's drowned in his vodka. Axel shakes his head, determined to stay fixed to the tarmac, a pretty street decoration. A dash of red among the grey.

"This is my home, Axel".

Nothing about his face suggests he heard you, He scans you quickly, tracing those eyes across your features, still unsure whether or not to believe you. You sigh with enough force for him to hear over the safe distance he's created between you, Roll your eyes to heaven and step inside.

Its dark, Curtains tugged shut, the television not tuned on any particular channel, the volume punched up so high, the sound of white noise is deafening. You're not sure whether the monotonous buzzing is from the television, or from inside your own head.

You glance around, your father poured over an armchair, Limbs twisted at impossible angles. That dangerous red doesn't glare from the shadows surrounding his eyes. He's asleep; a rotten imitation of a toddler, Rubber limbs, and the empty bottle clutched tight, Pressed to his cheek. The smell of alcohol is enough to intoxicate you.

A photo album balanced haphazardly on the arm suggests your father's been having a particularly bad night. But you can't bring yourself to care. Consideration another thing you don't share in your father-son relationship.

You snatch it from its perch; Just as the sound of Axel's swearing reaches you from the front step. There's only one photo left on the page that hasn't been shredded.

A family portrait.

Your parents are so young, you struggle to recognise your father, and Hair cut short, eyes a little more tranquil than you're accustomed to. His arm curled protectively around your mother, and in her arms rests the bundle that brought her that face-splitting smile. A small little boy, Even then he held electricity in his eyes, hopping and sparking, Lighting up his face. Blonde tufts peek out from underneath the blanket she's wrapped him in. They were so happy then. And you can't even say you miss this, because you never had this. That happiness lasted until the day you were born. Your appearance erased a lot of smiles and damaged a lot of relationships. Your father had been reminiscing, looking back on happier times.

Times you weren't alive.

Your ruined this family.

You take the liberty of shredding the photo.

"You okay? You look a little lost. I thought you said you lived here?" Axel's voice immediately sparks happier emotions, the concern on his face enough to substitute the concern your father never expresses, never feels.

"I'm fine," you mutter, Navigating your way around torn shreds of lives, Scattered across the carpet. Broken picture frames and empty bottles. Axel notices, But doesn't bother capturing his thoughts with words. His easy acceptance of the scene makes you wonder if perhaps Axel to grew from a rotten family tree. You don't bother asking, this scene is sensitive for both of you.

You struggle with weak limbs up the stairs, Axel obediently follows, Silent.

You stumble down the hallway, Past Cloud's room, and you wonder if maybe Axel can sense the sad history written behind that door. He glances at it, but his eyes are quick to glide back to you. You allow your own door to swing up; Colliding with the wall, and nod, indicating this is Axel's stop.

He doesn't protest, a rarity.

"She's beautiful" he thinks aloud, immediately captivated by the photographs of Namine plastering the walls of your bedroom. He stands before each, studying her features, whistling in appreciation. His nimble fingers run across their glossy surface, stroking the angry biro lines you carved into her eyes earlier. He doesn't bother asking what happened, just values the fact that you too had a miserable history to carve you.

You sit cross-legged on your white sheets, the dim grey light pouring across the floorboards, with those photographs; He's able to sum of the value of your life. You watch him and he watches her, finally he speaks to break the positive tension.

"You've got a thing for pretty blue-eyed blondes then" he snorts, taking a seat beside you, Eyes still fixed on the walls. You understand the reference immediately, still feeling the burning of Demyx' hands on your skin. He glances at you, Green eyes glowing.

"What happened?" he questions, Voice low, Sympathetic, Nodding towards the photos. All you can do in response is to smile, a dopey grin. The words take years to form behind your teeth, but he waits patiently.

"We broke up after Cloud died. She said I was too obsessed with him to care about her."

And inside, you completely agree with her.

Axel nods in silent understanding, glancing up towards the pictures once more.

"Women," he snorts, A genuine laugh creeping into his voice, Genuine cluelessness across his features, He's not acting anymore.

"Yah'know? My brother's got a warrant for Larxene's arrest, and everyday I pray that bastard's got her," He laughs to emphasise that he's finally figured his life is one big joke. "She's fucking crazy, Roxy."

You can't help but allow the childish laugh that escapes your mouth. You can't understand whether it's this assassin's genuine phobia of angry women, or whether it's his ridiculous list of nicknames. But your laugh brings a smile to his face, and you want to see that smile their forever, so you keep laughing, and he keeps smiling. A cycle that has to end eventually.

"Do you see him a lot? Your brother?" you finally ask, immediately and effectively wiping the smile from his lips. Even though your hate grew deep for your own brother, you still miss him. You feel depraved, like you've been robbed. You only want him back 'cause you know it's not going to happen. You don't understand how Axel can so easily dismiss his own brother, Reluctant to even communicate with him. And yet they both operate under such dangerous conditions, A Shinra elite guard, and And A street assassin. Either one could be dead tomorrow; you wonder would they share your feelings.

"Not a lot, But that's still too much," His smile now is fake, revealing an alarming number of teeth on each side, His lips peeled back to far.

"Why didn't he stay with you?" Your pretty sure he's already answered this is some round-a-bout way, A verbal response, But not necessarily relevant to the topic at hand. He swallows an audible, angry gulp, Eyes fixated on the knobs and knots in the wooden floor.

"He hated this place. Had a bad experience when he was young. One of things you run from but never really escape. You'know?"

You don't know, but you nod anyway, just a little disturbed that brother's can't miss each other. Axel's hate for his brother runs deep in his blood and burns in his eyes. A silence washes over you, the conversation dying. There's no awkwardness, just firm familiarity. Axel's ragged breathing is soothing. This is just another cycle that had to end, something else viciously broken by words.

"It's just sort of ... sad. Your brother leaves you, and you don't count down the days 'til he comes back. You're to busy with your countdown of days 'til he dies," Axel has the good grace to look a little guilty, " Sometimes I miss Cloud. Only sometimes, But I still miss him."

Axel nods a strange understanding in his eyes. He reaches out a frail hand to squeeze your knee, and he quickly withdraws it, His face painted with urgent concern. He can feel the bone through your skin. He hadn't noticed you withering away.

"Rox, I can't promise I'll ever miss my brother. But if you ever left, I know I'd count down the days 'til I saw you again. I'd miss you."

His voice is tight, a little forced, but it's proof of his truth. You smile, not completely satisfied, but happy he's agreed on something. From the corner of your eyes you see the warm grin, a peaceful expression on his face. Like he's found something he'd been searching for, for a very long time.

There's no time like the present.

"I spoke to Xemnas."

Axel glares up at you, that animal fury once more alive in his eyes. His limbs freeze; His knuckles protrude white through his skin. You never noticed how sharp his teeth were.

"About?" he's growling, but smiling nonetheless, and it sends chills down your spine. You avoid those eyes of his at all costs, fearing they'll set you ablaze.

You hesitate, not willing to discuss this for any longer than need be. You have to be careful now, Should Axel discover your conversation with Kairi, You fear what he'd do to her. Rip her limb from limb with those sparkling teeth.

"He told me Demyx is dead."

Axel drops all pretences, Wears this look of 'kicked puppy' quite well. He looks terrified, Eyes staring but not seeing, Mouth hanging open. The colour seems to have drained from the tips of his fiery hair right down to his feet. He's as white as the sheets wrapped around his trembling knuckles. You don't give him a chance to interrupt, Knowing that should he question you now, Your own argument will lose momentum, And you'll be the one to once more look like a lost idiot, Holding the gun with no idea how to use it.

"He was under the illusion you'd already killed him".

A sharp intake of breath, Sucked violently through his clenched teeth. When he speaks, its faux calm, well practised charm, the voice he uses to calm the rage in Larxene. His fingernails are embedded in his thighs, and silently you congratulate yourself for not mentioning Kairi. You can hardly see her standing up against the fire storm and walking away without a scratch on ivory skin.

"Is that it?" he hisses. You're momentarily a deer caught in searchlights. His voice is so chilling you can hardly breathe. This boy's stashed away a series of personalities, and you never know which one you're dealing with. He wears them at his convenience.

"He was angry, really. I left. But Xigbar-"

"You spoke to Xigbar?"

"-Listen to me Axel. Xigbar, He said something really weird as I was leavin'. About burying another brother".

Axel jerks again, Different this time, not angry, Anxious. Like he expects you to lean forward, Slit his throat, punch him. Kiss him, Kill him. He buries his head in his hands, the blood red strands hanging down, Shading his eyes. And you watch Absorbing but not understanding. Their lives are one big secret, and you've been left out of the loop. The most you can do is play messenger, and right now, you assume you're about to be shot.

"Fuck" he murmurs, His voice barely reaching you. He bands his temple with the palm of his hand, Eyes shut in obvious pain, but he continues his self-punishment.

"Everything alright?" you whisper, Aware the question is becoming too common between you. And despite your gentle voice against his animal rage, He hears you, and bleary acid eyes meet your own, staring sadly. Now it's his turn to look a little lost. Like the streets have finally caught up to him.

"Roxas. Would you mind if I crashed here for a bit. Just a little while".

You nod, A little shocked by his proposal, and you think to make a joke about the current situation, But that uncharacteristic panic on his face convinces you to keep your mouth shut. You run your fingers through your own hair, A little disgruntled by Axel's nerves. Assassins are hardened steel, but this one, not only does he let a victim escape, it seems he's got a little bit of a nervous issue to. Hardly professional material.

He stands, Paces, The breeze fluttering the photographs on the wall, and it's only then, as you search desperately for something to distract you, you notice what he'd been hinting at earlier. In the majority of the photographs, Namine could easily be mistaken for Demyx. And you never noticed you had such fixed tastes.

"What's goin' on Axel?"

He shakes his head, but it seems more of a soothing motion for him than one warning you away.

"Xemnas knows. He fucking knows." A mantra he repeats over and over, numbing your own mind, never mind his.

"A trained killer. Exact and precise and all those other words I couldn't pronounce. But I fucked up. I fucked up big time."

You catch his rantings and file them away, Unsure of what to say to console him, Unsure if he wants you to say anything. His pacing stops and he once more runs his fingers across your spread of photographs. He's obviously seen the comparison. In Namine he sees Demyx, and at that moment you wonder what runs through his frantic mind.

You're confident Namine's safe. She'd run away, to the big city, the bright lights and endless opportunities for a talented artist like herself. She wouldn't be difficult to track, her name frequently printed in newspapers throughout the slums.

The one the got away.

The girl who made her future happen.

She'd be difficult to get to. Protected from her past by private detectives hired by her paranoid mother.

You only heard from her once after she left. A brief worded letter shoved through your letterbox. The corners torn in your father's drunken attempt to open it. Across the front she'd drawn your street, the kids, your brother, you. The sky, the sun. You stored that envelope away, Hopeful that one day her image would come to life, you and your brother under the sun on a street not riddled with war and bullet holes. Another impossible dream.

Her letter had seemed cold, Nothing emotional just an informative letter.

'_Dear Roxas._

_I just thought you should know. I called him Tidus._

_Those streets are an infection for you. Get well soon._

_Namine_'.

You had yet to meet your son.

Axel's ranting drags you back out of your saddened state.

"I have to hide. I have to just stay out of the game for a little while".

"Axel! What the hell are you hiding from?" you're not angry, Just don't appreciate the confusion.

"Xigbar, He'll get Xigbar to do it".

"Do what?"

"Roxas … I'll be dead by the weekend".

* * *

**Man oh man, It's a good day. A good good day. So yeah, There's a lot of hints at what's going to happen in this chapter. And and and, .. Oh yeah .. This is like a really bad episode of murder she wrote .. Although, They're all pretty bad! Haha. This is super long to make up for the last two shit ones, And yeah Roxy boy's got a wee kiddo of his own ... The manslut. Can i just say though, Namine is not dead, She's not going to die and the fact her and Demyx are color-co-ordinated is just coink-i-dink. I love Namine. She ain't dyin'! So thanks for stoppin' by y'all! Go raibh míle!**


	21. Kick, Scream, Fuck, Fight

**I wanna shout, drink, scream, I wanna die! - Ye ye ye It's Hadouken! Who i don't own either ... maybe ..**

* * *

Axel's perched on your bed, Curled in the stiff white of the bed sheets, His childish retreat, some make shift tent on the road of life. He's not willing to stray just yet. He whispers, His mouth moving rapidly, Lips forming words too fast for you to catch. A warning streak of red among the pale of your room. This boy screams danger, but he feels like home. Funny how you connect the dots. His knuckles are straining white, bone stretching through his skin, the sheets torn and crinkled, barbed wires protecting him from the outside world.

Axel's accustomed to holding death in the palm of his hand, Serving it as he sees fit, Only seeking permission from his silver superior. But death has turned on him; He's starved its hunger, neglecting the execution of Demyx. Now it's snarling and snapping, chewing at the edges of his mind, and he feels it growing closer.

You don't interrupt the ugly relapse he's fallen into. His panic is almost pretty. It convinces you that maybe there are stories worse than your own. Although, the parallels apparent in both your tales are screamingly obvious, makes you wonder whether or not Axel has dwelled on your similarities. Wonder if there's room in that mind of his, the dirty black scribble of his bleak future taking up the majority of his thoughts.

The room is heavy silence, making you sweat, but it's just another fact you doubt he's noticed. And maybe this boy's life hasn't been as fun as you'd imagine. He's claimed mistakes, Patented his own fuck-up's. Is this the quivering result of every mishap? In a life full of inconvenience, You can't help but wonder if this is the first time Axel's found himself face to face with his own job title. The Grim Reaper of the streets.

He manufactured you a story, a jumble of words, hardly adequate to describe the struggling relationship between himself and his brother. A man's attempt at emotions. And he frames his confession with s pretty smile, a convenient distraction. This boy's as lost as you are. He doesn't mention parents, Instead, a brother that's abandoned him for a better life, working against everything he stands to protect. His eyes scanning the ceiling now, His knuckles clicking and cracking, The bones sliding and grinding beneath his skin as he twists the fingers, to deep in thought to hear his own sickening sound effects.

"I could ask Vincent. You could stay here," You gesture around you, Offering a pathetic smile, "It's not much, but you can stay until you figure out a plan. Xigbar won't look for you here".

And you say it with such confidence, you almost believe yourself, So many holes in your spur of the moment plan. The first hurdle being Vincent, A man hardly willing to share his home with his own son, Why would he bother opening his door to strangers, Particularly those who make their living dealing death like playing cards.

Perhaps Xigbar's already tracked you down, waiting for the opportune moment to break in, cover the walls in something else belonging to someone you value. Axel's brains, a spray of pinkish red to add to your collection of Namine photos.

You don't dwell on the thoughts. Instead you briefly consider Axel's older brother, working out some way of contacting the slacker, begging him to come back, Even to take his brother. Plead with him to offer Axel something safe, Show him shelter, and Show him a smile. You're willing to say goodbye to Axel if it means his safety. And right now, Axel's all you've got, Demyx A.W.O.L.

His voice is quite, Barely reaches your ears, A tiny whisper into your sheets. An acknowledgement.

"Roxas".

And that's all you need to hear, His effort at thank you.

It's enough to convince you downstairs, to face the storm among the bottles. You place your hand on the brass handle of the door before glancing once more over your shoulder, Axel still seated, His back you, Sad eyes trained on the window, Watching, Awaiting his own deliverance. His shoulders sag from the weight of the world, the weight of a life, but not his. He's resigned to handing over his life, the reluctance wearing off eventually. The life on his shoulders is Demyx.

The one who got away.

He gave that boy life, And Demyx wouldn't consider lingering a little longer than necessary, No consideration for his saviour.

The handle creaks before you realised you've opened it.

There's a heavy fog in the air, the stink of cigarette smoke. The smell of alcohol. This is your home.

Home is where the hurt is Roxas.

There's stains painted on the walls, each mark another screenshot from your life. From your position on the landing you can see the crusting brown stain, streaking the wall and the saddle boards. Instinctively you raise a trembling hand to touch the back of your head, Feeling among the blonde tangles for the scar. Your father had found you jamming forks, hair pins into the lock of your brother's bedroom door, desperately trying to break into Cloud's world, all those years before you stole the keys.

He'd been so angry; you had watched his mouth, convincing yourself that not a word of what he had said was English. He'd wrapped coiling fingers around your shoulder, Shook you until you were dizzy, While you begged for him to stop. He didn't know what he'd been doing. You didn't know what was happening. Each step you fell against on your way to the end leaving an ugly, permanent poppy bruise across your ribs. Your own painful zebra print. You don't know how long he' left you lying there, Limbs twisted like a contortionist, Bleeding down his wall. The psychiatrists and social workers would later tell you what you had already known.

You and your father broke the prejudice of father-son relationships.

You hated each other.

You curl your fists at the memories. Axel's footsteps sound upstairs, high pitched squeals escaping from the old floorboards. Your father lingers somewhere down here. This is his territory, the alcohol and the cigarette smoke. The family photos and the old school reports. Dishes clink in the kitchen, cupboard doors bang and crash, the harsh whispers of curses, a string of promises in your head.

You swallow your pride, you swallow your fear.

Right now, this request, it may safe Axel's life, but you willingly place your life on the line for the red-haired ruffian, and not once does the question blur across your solid thoughts. Why? This is the unfailing faith you never place in yourself. And sometimes you're scared of the world.

Peeking reluctantly around the splintered kitchen doorframe, the paint fluttering to the floor in dirty white flakes. Vincent is frantic, red eyes darting about the kitchen, surveying his surroundings as if each object he touches is new to him. Broken dishes and smashed glass litter the tiles by his feet, his prints left in blood across the checker board tiles. He doesn't seem to notice, pale hands reaching out but grasping air, the cupboard door hanging open, their contents rain down. His muttering still reaches your ears, despite his best efforts at disguising his uneasiness.

You've seen this situation before, Granted, it's not the colourful image taken from kids storybooks, but it's these pictures you grew up with. You learn to recognise and to relate. The sweat on his brow is enough evidence.

Vincent's drank himself out of house and home, Once more. And the row of empty bottles, neat and precise, different colours and shades, lined by the windows are enough of a reminder.

You suck the breath through your teeth, Sharp and cutting, and you take your steps into the light. He sees you, but he sees right through you. You never had much guts in the first place.

He nods, Subtle, Barely noticeable, an indication that he's listening, but only for a heartbeat.

"Vincent. I need to ask a favour?" You sound considerably strong, instead forcing all the restrictive energy into your joints.

Your lips may be loose, but your limbs are locked.

He doesn't glance at you, those blood red wounds in his face still darting about the room from his offensive position in the centre, among his familiar debris. His hands are curled into claws, and he's still searching for the alcohol to save his life.

"I have this friend-"

And this is where the road becomes littered with potholes, speed bumps and bodies.

How do you explain Axel's situation to someone who's sworn utter isolation from the street life. Your father took his stand and made his decision soon after Cloud's death, choosing to not even venture outdoors. And now you ask him if he would willingly invite one of those linked with your brother's death into his decaying home. You smirk, the thoughts too ridiculous. But Axel's expression and the regret in his eyes is enough to drag you back to reality.

The weight of his heart enough to drag you back to earth.

Your father's stopped his nervous movement; he's listening, but not looking. And you can't fuck this up. Axel's to important to you to abandon to his faith on the streets.

"-He's in trouble Vincent, Please. He just needs somewhere to stay. Just for a few days". And you say it all with one breathe, Reluctant to let him interfere, Not willing to hear him send your friend to the slaughter.

He sucks in a breath, Looks at you with a renewed anger in his eyes. There's your father, staring back at you. He doesn't need alcohol to fuel his fire, not now. Your eyes dart cautiously to his fists, the pressure of the bone against skin, the nails embedded in his palms. You measure his rage by his body, not his words. He's stuck in that monotone world.

"You're not bringing street trash into this house." It's final. No room for argument, but for some reason, you just can't keep your lips pursed.

"Dad, I just-" but of course by then it's to late. The word 'dad' has already slipped from your tongue, and it scratches at the insides of his head with a visible pain. You flinch and he fumes.

"Don't play god with me, Roxas. Taking some slut into my house and doing whatever it is you do with a street person. Think about what your family want for once".

He's back to his fruitless searching, No longer interested in anything you have to say, Any words of reassurance buried somewhere inside you.

"I think he knows what happened to Cloud" you blurt, just as amber coloured bottle shatters on the tiles. You're momentarily mesmerised, not even Vincent's warped fingers coiled around your throat are enough to faze you. This is just familiar. Something you miss. This is human contact, and regardless of the circumstances, you've longed for this.

He's hissing in your ear, breath ghosting along your jaw line, He sprays spit across your cheek as he hounds you for answers.

"Don't you dare? Don't you dare bring that up again in this house? He's dead, you leave him in peace. You need to learn how to respect, Roxas." He spits your name like bleach in his mouth.

This is what you need.

You can't find the words to save you from your speechless panic; your fathers' vice grip on your neck is enough to keep you silent.

"I don't care what this kids little tale is. This is no shelter Roxas. Not for murderers."

He releases you. Steps across to somewhere he can't see those painful pools of blue staring back at him. Your limbs slowly relax themselves, your shoulders sagging in defeat. Every part of you feels weary and tired, you've lost your battle with your father, and Axel's been forced to face the streets and certain death all by himself.

You sigh, Disappointment making it heavy and sad; And Vincent glares at you from across the room, across the broken glass battlefield and the bodies of empty bottles. His brow knotted in focus, His lips turned ugly in disbelief. There's a fire in his eyes of a different sort to Axel.

This is the man trying to do something constructive with his self-destruction.

"Don't you dare use your brother's misfortunes as an excuse to bring your fairy friends in to this house? And just when I thought I couldn't be more disappointed in you, you bring home some manslut and tell me it's for Cloud's good. Go to your room, and don't come out 'til you change."

And he's said it, finally managed to verbalize years of tension and disgrace.

You're the son he didn't want, the lingering mistake with your mothers hair and your mothers eyes, just another reminder to him of someone else he lost. But for some reason, this doesn't hurt, this is clarification. This is a weight off your shoulders. Now there's no guilt regarding your own hate for him. He's condemning you to your room, ordering you to change yourself, But what he hadn't managed to spit out in his lack of self-control, 'Don't come out 'til you change into Cloud'.

In his eyes, Cloud has always been the justice-loving strong boy, but parents never manage to see their kids for what they are.

Your were the weaker brother, A little more feminine with your looks, and that had haunted you your entire childhood. Even now, He assumes your preferences lie in the same gender. That idea makes your strop dead in our trail of thought.

He thinks you've hired Axel, to work out some of the kinks life creates. Your full sure Axel's never sold himself for skin vision, there's something to fiery beneath his smile. He has no potential to be anybody's bitch. Your feelings for Axel stray far from love and understanding, Lust sounds more and more like an accurate description.

Or sadism. You want to see Axel on his knees for more than one purpose; you want to see him feel something emotionally. You want to see him human, not the cold smartass you've come to know.

You don't bother defending yourself against your father's accusations of homosexuality; instead you stand their, your mouth flapping and your mind running wild behind distant blue eyes. You're confident there's nothing relevant to love between you and Axel, But you've finally come to acknowledge that those days you spend wandering the streets and lingering by Demyx' old hangout could mean something. Despite everything you came to know about him, the black and white, as well as the alarming grey patches, you still wanted to taste him.

No, you'll admit you don't want Axel, At least not the way you want Demyx.

It's not love, but at least you could learn to lie.

You turn to leave, to abandon your father to his broken dish desert, Leave him with that hateful panic burning away in his eyes. You have all intentions of letting Axel stay.

You climb the stairs, Difficult with your world-weary body, navigate your way past old blood stains, Fond memories and stand on the landing, Eyeing Cloud's bedroom door with a new sense of curiosity. But the voice leaking out from beneath your own door makes you stop in your tracks. You press your ear to the cold splintering wood and hold your breath.

Axel's voice is clear; Axel's voice is distraught, As if he's already seen what awaits him.

"Its Axel ... Could you put me on to my brother? ... It's just ..."

His voice dies in his throat. Axel said he hadn't contacted his brother in years. Now you see the impact your words have on him. Your conversation by the rows of stone markers, Speaking of how much you missed Cloud, And how much Axel had lost in his lifetime, His brother's abandonment. And how sad the thought that this is his effort at making amends before he faces his final judgement. This is him tying up his life story in one rushed epilogue, before he's unable to write anymore.

"Reno ... I'm in trouble"

It's all he needs to say for you to hear the resignation in his voice. There's silence in your room, and silence on the other end. Axel's breathing is harsh and uneven, this is his final sprint, and He needn't keep it up for long. You hear the buzzing, the strange bursts of sound as 'Reno' answers, although picking out words becomes too difficult, and Axel's odd, choked breaths masking the voice on the other end of the receiver.

"I just called to tell you I miss you sometimes".

There's a loud bang, a clatter, a tinkling sound as whatever Axel's thrown, Shatters on your floorboards. You're reluctant to knock, but it's your home, it's your alcoholic father dodging the bills and locking the doors to government officials.

Axel takes a deep breath on the other side as your knock finally interrupts his inner monologue, He stands among the white of your room, Looking every bit as 'street trash' as your father labelled him.

You had never noticed how little of a human being was left in Axel. He's gaunt, hunched slightly, dark red hair contracting with pasty pale skin. Those glazed green eyes rimmed with reds and blacks, His mouth a grim line. The holes in his clothing revealing nothing but dirty, blotchy skin and protruding bones.

"I was just dealing with business" he mutters, a weak attempt at an excuse, unenthusiastic and transparent. His eyes don't once wander, for fear of meeting your own. His acidic gaze is fixed on the city through your window. Its twilight now, the pinkish hues, Fading purples and oranges cast eerie shadows across his angular face. There's the faint sound of laughing, parties and ambulances.

The soundtrack for the city.

You sit on the opposite side of the bed, your back to him, Unsure of how to deal with this 'new' axel, the boy grasping at more emotions than just hate. You can't decide whether his dampened demeanour is for display purposes only, or whether he genuinely regrets all he's lost. Out here, Reminiscing is a luxury to expensive for most, but he sits among the crisp white, among the colourful rays, and steals shamelessly, locked in his memories for the moment. His smile grim, his eyes vacant, barely focused. Through the window, He can look into the future; He can see the world from here. All you can see is the past, the scribbled and scratched photographs of a relationship that lost its momentum soon after it began. All that Naminé left behind.

" .. Your brother? Right?'"You opt to break the suffocating silence.

There's a shift of weight, a shuffling of clothing, but no vocal response. You assume he had nodded his confirmation. There's a rhythmic crunching sound, a raw crack of bones, as predictable as your heartbeat. His knuckles are warped from the pressure, the joints decaying from his constant nervous fiddling, his subconscious wringing of knuckles, this is your indicator. Nothing in his face would ever betray feelings of nervousness. It's all in his hands.

"What did he say?" you ask airily, Attempting to make this conversation as light as possible, Not willing to wander into the darker corners of Axel's mind, Or to discover more of the dysfunctional relationship he shares with his brother. He takes his time answering, pauses, and then takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the words that never come. You'd just witnessed the most emotional thing you'd ever hear him say, a confession to his childhood hero, and you have no idea how to treat him, or how to react to his obvious uneasiness.

"It was his answering machine, at the office. At least I tried - I guess".

You choke back an angry sigh. You have no right to display such emotions, when Axel still lags behind on the emotional battleground. He's still struggling with what to feel, not how to feel it.

Standing to pace your room, to occupy your feet, you glance once more at this surprisingly complicated human being cut open before you. The twilight in his eyes looks like flames, he's entranced, eyes strangely wide, unwilling to blink for fear of losing the scene he's captured.

"What did your father say?" he asks eventually, those eyes still don't break contact with the sky, something he'll never touch. For some, the skies the limit, But Axel would tell you years from now, the sky were never even a possibility for him. He blames his lack of purpose on his early teens, His involvement in gang activity.

"Not much good comes of kids with guns, Blondie, unless they plan on using the gun on themselves".

To the sound of heartbeats and cracking knuckles, you attempt to concoct some form of lie to satisfy the momentarily weakened Axel. Nothing springs to mind.

"He said it was fine" you mumble, presuming Axel's too absorbed in his own private land to hear the reluctance in your voice. But his wits are as sharp as his comments. He glances up, Questioning eyes, the twilight throwing a strange glossy light across the venomous green. For a moment his eyes are milky white, and without that permanently burning green, it's hard to decipher what's raging in his mind.

"I can hear Yah'know. You heard me after all." He shrugs and returns back to watching the world waltz by. Sure these people have their own problems, and usually his fondness for collecting their twisted life tales outweighs his safety, but right now, He can't focus on much else.

So once again he reads you. You sigh your defeat, and from the corner of your eyes you see the smirk creep across his lips. He may be teasing death, pulling its hair, but he's still willing to have a jab at you.

"Don't mind him. Just stay. He's still sore... about … You'know …" And you trail off, Pleading with him to understand, you refuse to let him drag out the past in a place like this. You don't wish to discuss Cloud's death in any more detail than a passing mention. Not with his memories and feelings traped in the room next door. You're positive Axel's picked up on your telepathic warnings, but he figures he's already losing balance on a very thin line; Why not push him a little further.

"About what?" he offers his best sympathetic smile, But that in itself is pathetic, There's that teasing grin stretching his face again

You grumble to yourself, a promise of pain for Axel, and a silent prayer that Xigbar doesn't get him before you do.

And it's only then do you pick up on Axel's sly manoeuvres. He's using you as a distraction, taunting you, So that should you rise to the fight, He won't have to think about his impending confrontation with the lumbering Xigbar. You tag along, After all, Axel's confident he's not going to see the weekend, Which means your little play-act won't have to last for very long.

"Dad knows Cloud's death wasn't an accident-" And before you ever get to explain your analysis of your fathers outlook, Axel interrupts with a new expression on his face, A childish curiosity, Ripping his eyes from the outdoor scene to rest on the stormy skies in your eyes.

"Really?" he purrs, His knuckles are twisted and red, but he's no longer tugging at the joints. All his nerves vanished, this talk of death is his territory, and He knows it well.

"He may not have been happy Axel, but he was comfortable. Cloud had no reason for 'accidents'" you respond, Sounding already exhausted with the topic. But Axel's filing away the words, He's never really dived into this conversation with you, it was always just bubbling beneath his lips. He's seen Cloud's death from the street point of view, now he's looking to see it from yours. He nods, mouth open slightly, as if he's swallowing the words directly from your throat.

You hesitate, posing your own question for him, Preparing for his verbal block, that ignorant arrogance, an unwillingness to discuss his own little story.

"Xemnas told me a story, about recruiting my brother. You knew him. What was he like? I only ever got a chance to see Vincent's Cloud. Not Cloud's Cloud. I never really met my _real_ brother. It's kinda sad I guess."

Axel seems a little stunned by your effortless admittance. Those green globes just blink rapidly, As if it'll help him order up your words in some way he'd like to hear them. This is him stalling for time until he gets a chance to give you an answer to a question you never asked. He doesn't bother; this is a critical breaking point between you, an honest conversation where Axel speaks his plain English, Not the usual flowery metaphors, His fanciful mindfuck.

"He was a good guy. Quite, and even though you weren't out there with us, He was still protective of you Roxas. He hated the others talking about you. He'd always had a big heart, You'know? Just never knew how to show it off." He smiles, Satisfied with both his summary, and the warm, gentle small you're wearing.

"Did he ever …? … You'know? Do what you do? …" You ask, Quite and low, dreading the idea that your brother may have died with someone else's blood on his conscience. He reads you correctly this time, and you may not have any visible nervous ticks, but once again he's not looking at you, He's looking through you.

"He never killed anyone, if that's what you're askin'. Definitely a lover, Pretty good fighter too, But death was something he preferred to step away from, Well, until it hit him full force." He offers a weak laugh, which quickly transforms into a pathetic cough upon seeing your face.

"I've been thinking ... " you begin, And Axel bristles once more, and you see how much he was trying to avoid this conversation. These deep conversations, sharing of thoughts an feelings, to him this was commitment. And that was something he avoided like the plague. Even death was a more welcome visit.

"About timelines, those kinda things," you continue, decidedly ignoring his reactions, Aware that should you read to far into them, you know you'll stop your investigation.

"If you knew Cloud back then, you knew Demyx too, Right?" The words hang in the air. Axel sucks a deep breath through his teeth, Turns once more to rest his gaze on the city that destroyed him.

"He was nothing like what you've been exposed to. That kid coulda smiled through war. Well... At least I thought he could. And look at'em now" he mutters absentmindedly, And you're beginning to wonder if maybe the rest of this conversation is taking place inside his own mind, He talks as if you he and Demyx has been friends for a lifetime. He's wearing a smile that tells you that maybe once upon a time those two laughed together, and now, they're stuck in some repetitive game of cat and mouse, the cat only chasing the mouse to keep up some sort of stereotype. Axel's lost his passion for chasing Demyx to the ends of the earth, and had you not known that before, the serene expression on his face is enough evidence of that.

Axel granted Demyx his life, and now, He was prepared to put his own on the line. And maybe Axel's got more emotions stored in him, something deeper than the hate and the frustrations burning in his eyes. Something more than the determination carved into his hands.

Your father had assumed your interests lay in Axel, but dwelling on the idea, your thoughts link from one to another. There's no love between you, and the friendship you struggle to maintain is at a bare minimum.

You're not in love with Axel.

But Demyx is another chapter.

"He's a little different now, But I'm sure you'd gathered that" Axel mumbles from across the bedspread, only an arms length from you, But the distance seems like forever, It hardly seems worth it anymore. You watch the flickering remains of his phone, twinkling away on the floor like some fallen star. And maybe his silence is your hint, your opportunity to leave, to try and save someone, and for once, you're not out to save yourself.

It's for Demyx, And Axel.

And right now your mind is reeling. Your conversation with the dampened fire felt like a turning point, like the title of a chapter, Big bold lettering. But you can't figure why.

"Axel, I'm just gonna run out for a while. Just stay here, don't leave the room," you warn him, But he doesn't need to hear it. Rustling through folded papers, Diary entries and phone numbers stacked in your drawer, you fling it on the quilt behind him, a dull thudding noise finally grabbing his attention. Inquisitive hands lift the phone; He twirls it, and Runs his fingers of the keypad slowly, like he's never seen one before. He turns those lost eyes to you and everything negative he could ever feel is displayed right there, an ugly painting across his face. Too many harsh lines and angles.

He's no longer making an effort to hide who he is, He figures death's on its way.

You nod to the phone he caresses, "Just keep trying Axel. I'm sure he misses you ... I know I would".

The worlds coming down around your ankles Roxas, And all you want to do before it all fades to black, Is to tell someone 'I love you' and know it's not a lie.

* * *

"Xigbar," the silver haired man purrs, Reading over yellowed newspaper scraps spread like butter across his desktop. Xigbar only grunts in response, glaring out the window, As if life was to blame for his current situation. It's not life's fault, its Axel's. But these orders are strict, And Xemnas' patience are as thin as his smile lately.

"It seems the past has come back to haunt us," he feigns amusement, Holding up a page delicately between trembling fingers. He's doing his best to contain his frustration, While Saix, Lingering behind, Fails miserably.

"Of course, Haunting would imply the past is dead .. " he grumbles as an afterthought, Thrusting the frayed article into Xigbar's hands, Nodding at it gently, Urging the sharpshooter to refresh his memory a little before his new assignment stirs up some painful memories. A memory they all share. Xigbar, Xemnas, Saix, Axel, Demyx, Cloud.

Xigbar sighs his annoyance, Glancing wearily once more up towards his superior before shaking out the page and running his functional eye over the blurred writing.

He's muttering the words under his breath, Personal but still audible, until he skims over something he doesn't like. The words pause as does the breath and the heartbeat. He casts that suspicious glance once more up towards Xemnas, His good eye wandering to Saix as an afterthought. Whatever's running through Xemnas' mind at that moment, Will be magnified tenfold in the ridiculously perceptive Saix.

Saix looks brittle, one solid structure under his skin, No individual bones.

The sight alone is enough to freeze Xigbar's blood in his veins.

"The article" he mumbles, waving it in the air for emphasis, As if his two companions really need a reminder of the unpleasant little story they've been included in, "This is from the day after Cloud died".

Xemnas says nothing, Just nods slowly, His eyes closed, Deep contemplation or utter exhaustion. Saix is up on his feet now, and Xigbar is a little more weary of where the wandering berserker steps. He's pacing behind Xemnas. And Xigbar briefly commends their amazingly subconscious synchronization.

Xemnas struggling mentally, While Saix acts out his feelings.

Ridiculous, But admirable, considering those two could hardly form a fact about the other.

Strange how people form a union without really knowing what they're stepping into.

"Look at the picture," Saix snarls; not bothering to turn those angry amber eyes on Xigbar, Positive the full effect of his anger is in his words, not his eyes.

In the picture, Cloud stands among his makeshift family, in his arm he holds his world, the girl from the club. Aerith. Lingering over him, the feral figure of Saix. And there's a jealous there, A vicious circle. Aerith the only innocence among their old lives.

"What am I supposed to see?" he mutters, Growing tired of Xemnas little mind game, But before he even has a chance to take a breath, Saix is there, Reaching over the desk, Claws and rage, Ready to bury them in the assassins throat. How quickly his patience evaporated.

"DEMYX! You idiot, Demyx is there, and he's still fuckin' here. Axel never fuckin' wasted him, He hid him".

Xigbar swallows past the thick paste forming in his mouth. His eyes wide in shock, a twist of terror in his eyes.

Saix is rabid.

"And what can I do about it?" he asks lowly, Whispering to avoid frustrating the berserker any further. Saix withdraws from the desk, returning to his pacing, the insanity is bleeding from his pores, and all the time, Xigbar's focus is on the fact that he's still got a higher body count than Saix.

"I want you to go after Demyx. We've got secrets, and I intend to keep them secrets. If he ever opens his mouth, He'll put this gang in jeopardy". Xemnas seems a little more relaxed, His breathing returning back to normal, As if Saix little outburst was a relief to his tension.

"Axel's my new play thing. He'll live to see tomorrow. But not much else after that".

* * *

**I met this boy. He tasted like something from my childhood, and i hated him for it, but i still didn't let him go. I've a habit of loving people for making me hate them. I thought i'd let that rub off in some of the characters.**

**Sorry this is bollux, And sorry for the swearing, But i'm really sore in the face area. If i could pull my teeth out i would. Mum says i've nostalgia or something? Isn't that just missing something from the past? Or maybe it was neuralgia ... I've been drunk for 48 hours now. So sorry for the shit end of this one. I probably gave it away to. Anyway, CHEERS FOR REEEEEEADING!**

* * *


	22. An Ait A Bhuil Do Chroí

_**An áit a bhuil do chroí is ann a thabharfas do chosa thú -**_** Means '_Your feet will bring you to where your heart is_' in irish, Oddly appropriate i figured.**

* * *

Your feet hit the tarmac to the rhythm of the sirens. The cat calls and obscene whistles that follow you ring through your ears. You're in a hurry, the pounding of soles against concrete, but you've nowhere to go. You have no destination in mind, just a person, Harder to grasp than the water he harbours a fascination for.

You abandoned Axel to your jail cell, the white walls covered with the white girl. All the innocence and purity, all those luxuries you could never afford. His palms were a mess of blood and bone, the phone clutched tight between rigid fingers, the monotonous beeping as he accidentally mashed the keypad with the force behind his fists. You're torn as to whom you offer your sympathies, Axel, The not-so-innocent bystander, or his elder brother, the soon to be homicide victim at his younger brother's hands.

It's amazing how your thoughts lead you one way, while you feet drag you another.

You're searching for Demyx; you're searching for that anxious feeling, your heart skipping faster, your fingertips tingling. It's not love, but you like to make-believe. You want to tell someone that something good came of this disaster.

The disaster of the streets or the disaster of your life.

Your father's mention of the faintest relationship between you and Axel. It lit the fuse to the explosion of complications in your mind. What you shared with Axel was supports, the bare bones of a relationship. A friendship of convenience, you seeking out information on the boy you've dedicated more than half your thoughts to, while he seeks a shelter, a friend over whom he knows he controls.

And you fit each others roles perfectly.

Alarmingly.

The buildings loom over you, blotting out the fading sunlight, the only stars you see now, the twinkling of bare bulbs in dusty windows. Girls linger in doorways, watching you with eyes that scream jealousy. You've got what they want, a family, and a home. And you'd offer it to them in a heartbeat.There's a tension in the air, Electricity racing up and down your spine, and these people all watch you, like their own stories depend on your reactions. You slow to a stroll, your speed through the streets attracting unwanted attentions.

As the light dies, Neon signs flicker and blink into life, more strange characters creep and climb from the cement work. A scene from every zombie movie you can recall seeing, popping joints and cracked skin, their primal instinct to feed on the gullible.

You're the meal of the day Roxas.

A young boy lies in a doorway, a cap pulled low over his eyes, Teeth clenching an unlit cigarette. Scraps of harsh white skin on display to whoever's interested.

To your left, a withering blonde hunches over a darker figure. Her words and whispers are low and urgent, but you hear her pleas, the frantic panic of realising that just maybe her dark bundle of boyfriend stopped breathing hours ago. Her choked sobs escape her grinding teeth, her skeletal hands snatching his shoulder and knotting in the bald fabric, shaking his motionless form until her knuckles turn pale. And for once, you scrape up the slightest ounce of pity, gather it together and admit that you've just witnessed two deaths. The man bundled in black, and his frantic girlfriend. Her panicked gasps and angry stomping may suggest a heart beating beneath a too young exterior, but you know for a fact, inside she's already frozen over.

You know how it feels to watch a loved one walk away.

And no one bats an eyelid.

You hold yourself a little closer now, Cradle your own arms like a childhood comfort. A teddy bear, your mother. You keep your eyes focused on the ground, only straying when the footsteps venture closer. To these people you are a God. To you, they are death. Your heart hammering in your head, the sirens blaring their warning from a distance. Tonight death walks these streets, and you're in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Roxas?" a vaguely familiar voice, Things seem to slip your mind a little easier these days.

"Roxas!" You spin around to face the darkness, Blink helplessly against the neon and lingering shadows. A figure speeds closer, Thin and fragile, A painful silhouette against the neon.

A hand reaches out to grasp your shoulder, Pale skin, blue-green veins showing through the paper thin layer. The nails are chipped, Filthy, A layer of grime gathering beneath them. And despite first impression, these hands are definitely those of a young woman. She squeezes, a reminder that for once, the shadows aren't offering you harm. As she steps into the beams of electric blue and shocking pink light, her lavender eyes glisten behind brave tears.

"Roxas, you gotta come quick! I don't know what to do?"

* * *

Axel juggles the phone gently, one had to the other, watching the monotonous rhythm like it fascinates him. The screen lights up occasionally with the brush against the keypad. But those glowing buttons look a lot like teeth, and he's not willing to stick his hand in that creatures mouth just yet. He'd shared something with Roxas, Some unspoken agreement. He would make an effort to speak to his brother. There was a promise in Roxas' eyes, and that had been enough to convince him, Typing in the numbers with a dwindling enthusiasm. His finger hovered over the last, Reluctant to go any further, the final digit in Reno's call code. The number eight taunting him. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, Fighting the inevitable migraine, Returning to his feeble attempt at juggling, Enjoying the fading heat of the suns dying rays, Spread across his face like a hospital sheet.

He offers his best attempts at ignoring the issue flung from hand to hand, although his guilt tugs at the corners of his mind. Those green blue eyes staring back at him from their patches across the walls. Namine shares more with Roxas than that little idiot would care to notice.

Downstairs the sound of shattering glass, the sound of violent swearing threatens Axel's ears. In his momentary panic he breaks his rhythm, the phone tumbling to the floor in a less than acrobatic display. Roxas had mentioned his father, but of course, Axel already known Vincent. Axel had already known Roxas, Midnight visits to the older brother's room. His relationship with Cloud was never strictly professional.

He peels his hand away from his chest, His efforts at fending off a heart attack. The soundtrack downstairs draws to a close, not even the sound of Vincent's aggressive footsteps assault his ears. He leans forward, snatching the phone from the carpet, highlighting the screen again with the brush of a button. He rereads the digits already awaiting their final arrival, before returning to his mindless circus act. But something on the flickering screen captures his attention. He can't recall typing the '8', but there it blinks back at him, the call button lingering dangerously close.

A one-way junction on the road of life.

There's a reason he had dropped the phone, A little intervention from faith perhaps.

"Now or never" he mutters, jabbing the blinking green button with all the frustration he can muster against life.

* * *

"Roxas, Something's wr-, you need to-, around there-" Kairi fumbles and tumbles through her sentence, Her words barely piecing together but her warnings bleeding through loud and clear. Her brows are knotted, dark violet bags framing her co-ordinated lavender eyes. Her tears mingle with her lip-gloss, gluing her lips shut and trapping her story inside her mouth. She gestures, her arms waving wildly, her fingers pointing, her chest heaving up and down, the rhythm unpredictable. She's been running, seeking help. But just like the little corpse blonde, Backs are turned towards her and eyes are rolled above her.

She's hunched now, standing a little shorter than you, and through her thinning hair you see the scars of her profession.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight and count to three.

Her nerves play with your composure.

"Slow down" you murmur, Offering whatever little support you recall from your own childhood, A pat on the head or a slap in the face. You rest a reluctant hand on her bare shoulder, but she shrugs you off, Angry that you're showing her pity, Frustrated that you're just like the rest.

Deaf to life.

She jabs her finger in a definite direction, demanding you see for yourself. And you can hardly gather as much trust as you can, pity. Her gentle sobbing pulls you back through your hazy thoughts, Her porcelain hand still puncturing the air, An invisible trail behind the burnt out building on the corner. Not even the rainbow of PVC dresses linger in this part of town.

She's hasn't managed to convince you.

"It's Demyx" she struggles, her voice raw from misuse, her desperate pleading for help.

She needn't say more. You finally get to play hero in your own story.

Your feet carry you quicker than you'd previously thought possible, your heart once more hammering in your ears, your eyes bleary with some emotion you'd rather not place. Your fists clench and unclench Sweating and bleeding.

It's not love, but you figure it's important.

Somewhat relevant.

Run Roxas, Run.

* * *

"Shinra offices, how may I help you?".

He can picture her now, the tightly wound secretary, her voice like barbed wire and an attitude to match. The kind of cold ice that shares itself around the offices. Who knows, this cutting young lady might now just how far your brothers tattoos stretch.

'_Bodies are so boring Ax, Think I'm gonna fuck mine up big time yeah?_'

There's a sound of shuffling, faint muttering, hardly decipherable. Papers being crumpled, Fluttering and falling to the floor. A razor blade laugh, sharp and threatening, the sound of fingertips brushing against the mouth piece on the other end.

"Reno here."

Axel can hardly swallow around the heart in his throat. It takes enormous concentration of will to keep that speaker pressed to his ear. His breathing is heavy, rapidly speeding up, His own gasps so loud in his ears he almost misses the response from the other end of the line, 'Dude if you wanna perv on me, Do it in person'.

"Reno?"

It's all he has to say before the snorting and giggling on the other end draws to an abrupt halt. There's an almost homicidal silence, and in that time he runs through all the words he's ever said to his brother. The silence blaring so loudly down the line is finally shattered by the bitter woman from earlier, hissing something, no doubt spiteful, at Reno, as he Looms over her desk and occupies her phone. A gentle cough, a deep breath.

He's waiting for the accusations.

"Axel? Y'alright?" The questions sounds manufactured and stereotypical to both pairs of ears it falls on, Reno fights the urge to cringe. He hasn't had much interest in his brother's wellbeing since him walking away from his first life. These are just the ghosts from his past, Playing with his nerves and slowly shredding his mentality.

Axel gulps again; a deadly churning in his stomach convincing him this phone call isn't going to last much longer. Instead he listens intently, with a burning focus, to the voices echoing in the background, Spreading the distance between them. That familiar woman with the dead tone, she's hardly bothering to whisper, whoever she's arguing with only responding to her in a series of low grunts and grumbles, like an animal. A monotonous tapping sound echoing off concrete. Reno's patience is quickly burning in the flare of his temper. That's his foot drumming the ground.

"I just-", Axel spits, resorting to words to maintain his brothers attentions a little longer. He hears Reno's sigh. He figured his older brother would manage to build on his patience over the years, not his arrogance. But credit should be given where credit is due. He hasn't hung up yet, Although Axel gets the vague impression that his elder brothers mind has already wandered elsewhere as he prepositions the grumbling woman from earlier with lunch. He sees his window; He'll never have to say this again.

"I miss you". And just like that, the words have spilled, and are almost immediately lost in the connection. Reno continues his ventures; Axel can almost hear the smile in his voice.

Reno had left to improve his life, to make a difference for those who couldn't fight for themselves. But listening to him now, Conversing with his colleagues, treating his feminine co-worker like the street trash he'd grown so fond of over the years. This conversation is evidence enough. Reno never wanted improvement, He wanted to escape, And as Axel ends his inner turmoil and manages to spit out something relevant to 'I love you', Reno chatters and laughs, ignoring their deep-rooted issues.

By the time he places the receiver to his ear once more, Axel's already hung up.

* * *

The voices stop you; they petrify you in your steps. You place a trembling hand on the frayed edges of this dilapidated building and catch your breath. Low voices and angry whispers spill around the corner, each word punctuated by a scream or a siren. Kairi has managed to mention Demyx. And although the other voice sounds painfully familiar, you can't seem to recall the face attached, Regardless of how unusual it is. There's the sound of cans kicked around on concrete, heels clacking in the cracks, the sound of metal sliding on metal. Like a gun recoil.

You suck in your breath; convince your head that this is a risk worth taking. Pressing your back against the flaking concrete, your palms spread flat against splintering wood. Your knees are weak, A build up of pressure and tension, of secrets and lies. All these people who share connections and left you out of the link, and yet you still haven't decided whether being excluded from this dysfunctional family is a good thing or not.

"I'm not pulling another fuckin' magic trick". The voice is distorted, A little strange, Spat around a smouldering cigarette. Teeth grinding and muscles tense. There's no denying that's Demyx.

The answer is a low muttering, A monotone hum from your distance, And you still can't convince yourself to glance around the corner. Just waiting for life to throw you another rubix cube of a situation. Just another thing you can't solve.

Demyx.

Your brother's death.

Algebra.

To breathe is to work right now, the stress on your lungs; each gasps a long, screeching wheeze. But Demyx is too wrapped up in his angry monologue to register.

"We've done this before; it does only gonna happen again. This time with you". He sounds confident; those clacking sounds his own heels, each stomp an exclamation point in his argument.

The dull clink of metal again, A sound so far from home among the street life. Violence was only relevant if created by your own hand. Shooting a victim was not considered an 'original' ending.

Your fingers coil around the boards before your eyes follow. And the scene played out behind the dumpsters and cardboard boxes is enough to bring a smile to your face.

Demyx stomps his warnings into the concrete, fingers knotted in already tangled blonde strands. His dress, frilled and frayed, too many holes advertising his skin.  
He's wandered too far off his regular map, strolling blind into the industrial sector, the only beating the sound of heavy machinery. Your trail of thought is interrupted before you can think up a logical reason for a dainty little boy to street crawl through a mechanical ghost town.

"Suck it up. We'll think of something".

A voice that sets your blood to boil, and for that moment all you see are the white and black speckles of a channel with nothing to show.

Xigbar.

The lumbering giant looms over Demyx, Glaring down on the strutting blonde with a look unlike any other you've ever seen him wear. What you see here, the dazed expression on his face, you manage to link it to concern. He holds out a charred hand, A weak attempt at stopping Demyx' frustrated monologue. His hands hang limp by his sides, the neon glinting off metal clutched tight in his patchwork claw.

As if your thoughts were his, Demyx suddenly spins on his heel, Snatching, not the weapon, but Xigbar's hand, and points the barrel to his temple. Teeth bared and limbs curled some wild animal in desperate need of being put down. The gun is his injection, Xigbar, the little boy, too stubborn to put the rabid animal out of its misery.

"If you fuckin' do it now, At least I know I've put a smile on Xemnas' face".

Xigbar maintains a stony expression, His previous concern dropping to his feet like a weight. As if he's grown accustomed to Demyx' tantrums, as if he's held that glittering barrel to the blonde's head too many times to count. This is just another day in a diary full of target practice. He sighs, a grunt of exhaustion, Massages his temple with the other hand, Ready to retire from his life of crime.

"I know you're sick of doin' this kid, Staring at the wrong end of a gun". Demyx' lips are still curled back into a threatening sneer, His delicate fingers wrapped tight around the barrel. His face only relaxes a little with the realisation that there are other stories independent of his own. It's not always about him, although he'll fight for his share of attention.

You've never understood Demyx, Too many personalities trapped inside his mind, to many different moods fighting for dominance, Switching through and through. His eyes give nothing away, just a dull, glazed over blue. Looking but not seeing. Right now, His actions advertise something different, an ugly transformation from the seemingly carefree boy you met on the pier all those weeks ago.

He's mutated.

.

By the time you blink, Xigbar's dead body has already hit the pavement.

In a movement so fluid, so practised, As if he's been trapped in the situation multiple times before, Demyx redirects to gun from his own temple, His trembling hand still squeezing the barrel, and shoved it deep into Xigbar's jigsaw chest. The explosion of red paints his face in scarlet speckles, completing the manic look tearing at his features.

He drops the gun, a heavy clink and smears the droplets across his cheeks with the swipe of his arm.

"You're right yah'know, I am sick of doing this. So let's break the fuckin' cycle" he declares aloud, laughing until he's doubled over, clutching his sides and struggling for oxygen.

He raises his foot, a red heel sparkling in the street light, And in a swift move of pure hatred, Brings the knife like point down on Xigbar's head, The sickening, squelching puncture finally convinces you to once more retreat around the corner, Glancing down the street, Kairi has stolen herself from view. And maybe it's for the better. And maybe there's a reason you saw this.

Demyx' insane giggles still assault your ears, And it's only a matter of time before those sirens locate another victim, Those flashing red lights moving like sharks throughout the city.

Considering your options, you twist yourself around the boards once more, glancing back towards the bloody scene you just witnessed. Demyx stands, His dress a little too big, the shoulders hanging down to his elbows. He blinks and narrows his eyes, squinting into the darkness, Staring straight back at you.

Looking but not seeing.

One ankle spattered with blood glittering in the street lights, While Xigbar's motionless body sits propped against the rotting walls of the building, His chin resting on his chest, His eyes showing a little too much white.

Demyx stomps his foot once more, Satisfied with how his little act played out, And with that, Turns to abandon the already abandoned industrial park. Revealing too many teeth and covered in blood, He marches back into his own territory, Chest still swelling with his victory.

And no one will bat an eyelid.

You turn to leave, before another strange occurrence is given a chance to occur. The crunching and banging of the machinery in the moonlight already a cause for alarm. And through your head, the questions run their marathon.

A man has just died, and you're the only one who knows, and possibly, you'll hold that title for a little longer than you should. Sure, you witnesses Demyx viciously kill a man, But you still question whether or not the skinny little blonde realises he just drew a line through someone's life story. In such a secluded area, the body will be rotting before anyone will discover it. Perhaps enough time for Demyx to adapt a new alias and disappear once more, Although, That little story seemed to have been what caused the uproar.

Demyx is unwilling to start a new life, a strange concept for a male prostitute.

You briefly wonder if you'll tell Axel, Inform him that he just might see the weekend, Although Xigbar won't. You can imagine that daft smile on his face, His mouth moving a mile a minute as he bombards you with questions you have no interest in answering.

You wonder how Xemnas will take the news, His second hand assassin, Sentenced to death by the teenage cross dresser. And as your thoughts venture to Xemnas, More and more questions surface, and your mind plans another vicious cycle.

Something else to keep you up at night.

Xemnas had said Saix had discovered Demyx, A talent hidden among the concrete and neon, recognising the boys fighting ability as something to be nurtured. But when your brother nudged his way onto the scene, Demyx was placed on the reserves bench.

You've just witnessed Demyx as a natural disaster, wasting lives he has no right to take. All the violence and built up rage taken out on a man who had apparently spared his life multiple times before. Demyx himself was more vicious and professional than the assassin. It makes you wonder, if he is such a talented fighter, with little mercy, why didn't Xemnas take full advantage?

Why did he send Axel out to kill something that could be classed as a dangerous weapon?

Why is Xemnas so determined to have Demyx dead?

* * *

**Sorry this one's kinda short ... and kinda crap, But i have art finals comin' up in ... three? days? And i'm kinda foo-ked. Also my face is all scraped up, I think i fell? Fairly sore alright. And oh oh! I watched Indiana Jones today! What a lej. Fair deuce to him.**

**I seriously have to stop usin' this as a diary. Enough about my weekend, How was everyone elses? lol**


	23. Starts With One

**OMG, You'll never guess what i just bought the rights to ...**

**Not Kingdom Hearts anyway, In case you're wondering, Or Shiny Toy Guns for that matter.**

* * *

"What are you looking for?" The normally silent bulk of a man lounges behind the only available chair in the office, the rest stacked high with skyscrapers of papers, the office dotted with empty coffee cups and cigarette butts. Even as he speaks, Papers continue to rain down on him, a deformed snow storm, a blizzard in the tiny cubicle.

Reno keeps his head down, His wiry hands frantic; skimming through papers at a rate his eyes can't possibly follow. Flinging them through the air, with little regard for the injuries threatening his workmates. He chews a cigarette between grinding teeth, the grey curls of smoke framing his face, choking the oxygen. His normally glimmering eyes, Dulled by the lack of sleep haunting his every action. His eyes framed a shade of blood, almost comparable to the fiery strands hanging across his face. He mutters around the death wand hanging limp from his lips, and all the while the papers continue to flutter to the floor.

The sleek, sophisticated blonde woman lingers in the doorway, Brow raised in a subtle interest, Eyes lit up with a little something more than venom for her sleep depraved work mate. Her arms remained folded across her chest, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"Slow down sailor, after all, you'll have to clean this dive up when you're done," she purrs, Eyes fixed on the willowy figure, now collapsed to his knees, frantically gathering scraps of files and profiles, tearing the sheets in his desperate search for something presumably not relevant. Perhaps the want for sleep playing with his basic thought.

She spares the lumbering giant behind the desk a sympathetic look, Wonders if maybe they should spare the co-workers sanity and request he be sent home a little early. She's rarely seen Reno live a life outside the Shinra offices, His suit painted to his gaunt frame, permanently armed, constantly expecting the worst. But he's focused on his acting skills over time, developed his ability to lie, to create something worthwhile.

That man held disaster behind his teeth.

A painfully fake grin.

She's seen him once are twice, Lounging in seedy bars in the underside of the city. She's read his file, Knows he retreats back into the darkness occasionally, Flashes of his old life making him nostalgic. He wonders back to the neon and cement work, Finds relief in the arms of a cheap hooker. So many times she's fought to protect his name, Lied to the company president to keep her desperate associate on some sort of pay check.

She recalls the case, she'd been sent after a young blonde girl, a name linked to many a dark tale spilling from the slums.

Larxene.

The girl with the thunder in her eyes and the lightening in her fists.

The president had suggested maybe she share a little girl talk with the evasive young woman. Larxene had worked in a club, some delightfully stereotypical skin bar, And Reno had just happened to be there, Cheek pressed against the stage where the alcohol stole his consciousness. Her report to the president had been a mismatched jumble of words and stories that didn't make sense. The majority of her time spent writing up reports had been dedicated to ensuring Reno's name hadn't sprung up. He hadn't even said thank you. She figured it was best to ignore the immature young man's antics until he found himself tied in a knot, Along with that sharp tongue of his.

"Yeah yeah yeah," he murmurs, Cross-legged among his paper fort. The beast behind the desk sighs, and more pages flicker and float to the floor. The blonde lady may see some sick entertainment in the red-head's human condition, But her overgrown friends sees nothing but tragedy.

"FOUND IT! I FOUND IT!" He yells suddenly, a page crumbled tight in a white-knuckled hand. A knot of purple-blue veins like twisted rivers show beneath his skin. The only thing he takes into his body these days being nicotine and verbal abuse.

He stands, Struggles to maintain a balance, Trembling, His knees knocking together. A wave of realisation hits the blonde woman like a tsunami. He's a withering young man. She shakes her head and offers a pathetic smile as he thrusts the wrinkled page under her nose, a look of childish pride bleeding through his face-cracking grin.

"Axel? ... This is your brother's file?" she questions, A little at loss for what to say or how to react. She watches his smile and decides it's something that needs to be maintained. Something that needs to be captured by a camera. Despite his training, the viciousness they implanted in him at recruitment, this boy still treasures his innocence.

"Reno", the larger man breaks his silence with vague confusion on his solid features, "These files are from a few years ago" he voices, his tone bordering statement and question. Between his index and his thumb he holds a profile page, the sheet dangling helplessly.

"Petty theft?" the blonde woman interrupts, her bored tone frustrating her flame-haired co-worker much to her delight. She shakes the page as though the answers will tumble from it.

"No no, hang on a sec, yeah?" Reno holds two skeletal hands over her painted lips, an effort to stop her words smashing apart his spur of the moment theory. She shakes him off, Disgusted, and painfully reluctant to ponder where those hands have been.

"Axel rang me, Right? And to put it in more 'polite tones'", His voice hitting an alarmingly high pitch, A glance towards the dignified blonde, "That boy wants to tear my head off and spit down my neck".

"Poetic" the giant grumbles, a strange fondness for his fidgety co-worker worn in his vague smile.

"He's got the right idea anyway" the blonde adds, A gentle smile on her lips. Reno's vocal rampage only hesitates for a moment before he drags himself back on track, choosing to ignore his co-workers comments.

"Axel wouldn't ring me unless somethin' was up, yeah? So I checked his files, Just to see if anyone else nailed him for somethin' when I wasn't lookin', Yah'know?"

The verbally challenged man smiles, a look of understanding dawning on his face. He rattles the sheet pinched between his fingers once more, "But this stack is from a few years ago-"

"THEREFORE," Reno interrupts, Reluctant to let anyone share his ideas and suspicions, Although he carries enough troubles for the entire company, "Axel hasn't gotten himself involved in anything, But there's somethin' goin' on down their that he ain't happy with."

Reno finally grinds to a halt, Eyes rolled to the ceiling, Scampering around for solutions to the problem he hasn't managed to imagine yet. The blonde woman waits patiently, displaying an unusual amount of tolerance for her workmate, her eyes skim over Axel's profile page again.

The scratched and old image printed in the top right hand corner could easily be mistaken for Reno, although the blonde has noticed Reno's eyes glimmer green blue, While Axels' maintain a poisonous green. Beside his picture, His name is printed in smudged black ink, the letters hardly decipherable. Her eyes scan the notes section, sorting the disorganised scribbles into vague letters, matching the rumours she's heard to the stories scratched on paper.

The words 'pyromaniac' and 'monophobia' scream for the attention, as does the individual who resorts to them as a means for earning the spotlight. Axel's just the lost little kid, Left behind by his childhood hero.

"Apparently Axel's escaped Shinra questioning several times. You wouldn't happen to know how, Reno, Would you?" She wonders aloud.

Reno has the good grace to look a little startled, His eyes revealing a little more white, while his death-trap mouth hangs a little too wide.

From behind his desk, the bulk of man throws the blonde lady a warning glance, daring her to continue on with her topic of choice. She never understood the relationship her male workmates shared, All silent words and meaningful glances, She'd always figured their immense age difference would plant them far from compatible, But even as two different people carved from two different worlds, The two manage to scrap at cooperation.

"What do you want to do about this?" the humanoid mountain drawls, Careful indifference across his face as Reno spins around, completely missing the dangerous glare from before. Reno for once manages to look vaguely affected by his surrounds, rattling a wad of paper clutched between delicate fingers.

"Flip it over" He nods to the woman, Eyes flicking to the profile page clasped tightly in her hands. Her lips move in spoken silence as she reads a string of names from the back, Scrawled in disastrous handwriting, Like each word sent violent tremors up the writers arms.

"What are these?" she finally pauses to say, Glancing up through thick, dark lashes, The scratched letters making as much sense now as they had before she attempted to decipher them. He may not act like he cares, but each of these names represents a year of Reno's life, Spent crawling through decaying slums and ruined buildings, seeking out the criminals he played ball with as a kid.

Just an adults game of hide and seek.

"Those guys, I caught all of''em. And when questioned, every single one of 'em mentioned Axel's name. I just wanna check what they're up tah these days, See if they're still banging around with Ax," Reno explains, Pure pride bleeding from his grin, The blonde a little frustrated that she didn't beat her crimson-haired comrade to the solution.

"Hold on a minute Reno. You're almost identical to your brother, Anyone of these scumbags could have mentioned him, Just to get a rise out of you," the quite man offers, Reluctant to disturb Reno's careful planning process, But his reluctance easily outdone by his eagerness to help his younger co-worker.

However, Reno never wore crestfallen well, and those eyes never fizzled out.

"Yeah, I figured that to, but, if they mention him, they must know'em somehow. I wanna question some of these guys again; See what they can tell me about what Ax has been up to recently".

Both his comrades sigh, glancing down at their uniform shoes before pulling in place their best smiles, Mustering up some form of confident courage, Beaming at the red-head. He seems satisfied with their faux encouragement, Snatching a stack of papers from the desktop before meandering out of them room.

The two share a look of sympathy for the blood-haired boys' sanity. They've both noted how he's willing to chase violent criminals to the edge of the earth just to avoid the inevitable confrontation between himself and Axel.

"He's gone" the large man mutters unnecessarily to no one in particular. The rods vaguely penetrate the blonde's mind before realisation hits her like a train as her glossy blue yes skim the crime scene left scattered about the office.

"RENO! Get BACK! I'm not cleaning this AGAIN!"

* * *

You run until your feet can't figure how to carry you any longer, you're suffocating, Struggling to breathe, Hunched over with the effort of escaping a truth you didn't care to witness.

Demyx had murdered, Turned a man's weapons on him, And all with that sadistic smile smeared across his lips with lipstick as red as the blood he was yearning for.

You don't know who you're looking for, but you hope they're here. You're waiting for someone to offer you a hand and a new mental image.

It's moments of dragging silence before Kairi bursts from the shadows, An angry firework of crimson lighting up your vision for a moment before dark lavender eyes come to settle on you, Their colour blurred by the gathering tears. Her hands on your shoulders, squeezing the muscle and puncturing skin, her face in yours.

"Roxas, Are you alright? I heard shots, What the fuck happened?", Her rancid breath hitting your face is enough to pull your mind from it's dulled state, you're close enough to take in the little details on her face that make her interesting. A heart shaped scar imprinted in her cheek, how the pupils in her eyes dangerously threaten to swallow the lavender shades. The red rims and a new poppy coloured bruise blossoming along her cheekbone, her eye swollen slightly shut. You disregard everything she's already asked you. It's irrelevant as far as you're concerned.

"What the fuck happened you?" you breathe, your voice a raspy hiss, Gesturing lazily to her new badge, the pride in her life. She timidly places a hand over her cheek, cradling her wound, taking a tiny step backwards, As if you've caught her unaware. As if she's genuinely scared of the broken down, decaying teenager before her.

"Crazy bastard hit me" she whispers softly, highly inappropriate for her choice of words. She nods vaguely in the direction you just exploded from, the ticking and screeching of machinery, Left trapped in abandoned warehouses without the company of a living soul.

You compare that to how you live.

"Xigbar?" You struggle, Voice cracking, Trying to decipher some sort of shape to her injury. You're just like everyone else. When you can't understand something, you place it in a category; Fit it in some place where it is understandable. You make up a story for her injury, Just to convince yourself you know what's going on around you sometimes.

She shakes her head rapidly; Eyes squeezed shut, Wine-coloured hair whipping her features in the whirlwind of movement.

"Not Xigbar. Demyx. That girly boy lashed out when I tried to break them up" she explains, Voice still low, only carried by the slight breeze whistling and rustling among the buildings. You nod your understanding, Sense her anxiety, As if she assumes Demyx is planning on returning to finish the job. You almost smile. He probably won't be returning to linger around these city ruins for a long while, not as long as a gun and a body covering in his prints still decorate the cracked footpaths.

A clumsy desire for death.

Your thoughts lead you away from the physical world, From Kairi's searching eyes as she maps out your body, searching for injuries or blood. This is her chance to play Good Samaritan and she's not willing to let it wander by. Her hands are back on your skin, rubbing furiously through the thin cloth, her sharpened nails catching your frozen skin. If she can't find an injury, she'll create one.

"Maybe you should go home Roxas. Tonight has been a string of disasters, and the innocent ones always end up paying for it," She forces a watery smile, Finally peeling brittle fingers from your shoulders, Patting your back. As if you need encouragement to seek out shelter from the storm of violence and the rain of gunfire. And your feet continue to carry you; Until Kairi's gaunt figure disappears and dissolves into the miserable darkness enveloping the streets.

* * *

"Check this kid out. He's one of the ones on Reno's list, only this guy hasn't been put away yet. He's got a report sheet as long as my arm," the blonde gasps, hugging her discovery close to her chest, a smug smile spread across her lips.

The lumbering giant merely glances up from his own paperwork, glaring at the vacant space among the mountains of paperwork where Reno had previously insisted on planting himself. Sheets litter the carpet, scribbled with angry red lines, X's and circles, irrelevant stuff Reno figured to be important.

That boy had the best ideas, but absolutely no idea of how to spring them into motion.

"Lemme see that," the red-headed man makes a sudden reappearance, Hovering in the doorway, Nursing a cold cup of coffee between his frail hands, His eyes glazed over for want of sleep. His uniform is dishevelled, His hair hanging low into his eyes.

The blonde lady looks a little torn at the moment, each of the sheets from her pile another petal on the flower, "I love him, and I love him not".

Hardly noticing her sudden, And achingly rare silence, He leans over her, peeling her findings from her fingers, Eager to know what she knows. Eager to know what they're facing. His eyes rest on the paper, Reading and re-reading the barely legible script. A small smile creeps to his lips as he studies the photo stapled to the top left corner.  
"You'know? I remember this kid", a smirk creases his face unpleasantly as a new truth dawns on him.

* * *

"Roxas, Jesus, What's wrong, Are you alright? Have you been running?" Axel's questions all blur into one as he bombards you from the opposite side of the room. Your back is pressed heavy against the door, for fear you father wander in and find not only Axel, But you, in some advanced stage of denial, too lost even for words. For fear of showing him a weak spot in your defences. And despite the situations, you don't fail to notice the glowing screen of the phone clutched tight in Axel's bloody fists. His only source of communication with reality, because what he endures down here, is so far from what could be the truth. The situations you share are too ridiculous to be reality.

Your stupidity, your damsel in distress approach to this strange occasion nags at the corners of your mind. You wish you could be stronger; you crave the emotional strength Axel displays unwillingly.

The boy who watched his brother walks away, knowing full well he'd have to play some twisted games to keep him alive out here. And not once did those acid eyes well up with tears.

You're sick of being weak.

You're always being forgotten, Left behind.

But not this time.

_Let's show them, the only way.  
Let's show them out hearts._

"Axel, why was Demyx listed?"

"Oh kiddo, and just when I thought we were hitting a turning point in our relationship, you bring up the bombshell".

Both of you let slide the implications of the word bombshell. The collateral damage that is Demyx. You take note of how easily Axel side steps you're questioning, the skills of a man who's done it many a time before.

"Tonight I saw something," You gush, sensing that this is a more important turning point than whatever Axel had been referring to, "And I tried to forget it straight away. But it just seems, Relevant. I figured you could help me.

Axel rolls his eyes, anything to keep that jade stone from resting on you too long.

"What's up?" he hums, Eyes still darting frantically around the room, Suddenly the stark whiteness of your decor is the most fascinating thing in the room. How easily he avoids the frantic teenager with the story trapped behind his teeth.

"Demyx and Xigbar were fighting, down by the old warehouses, the industrial park," You begin, hesitating only to see what Axel will add to your observations without being prompted. His limbs seem to freeze, His eyes pause their fruitless searching, resting on the ceiling, studying the specs of dirt as though they reveal to him the future.

He doesn't speak, No words pass between those lips, He tilts his head, an indication he's listening, And not willing to incriminate himself by speaking just yet. You shake your head and force your monologue onwards.

"Xigbar was askin' Demyx to disappear again... At least, that's what I think, I could hardly hear them," you announce vacantly, your own eyes tilted to the ceiling in your struggle to remember. The only image that springs to mind being Demyx burying his heel in Xigbar's head. The explosion of crimson that followed the gunshots, the motionless body propped against the concrete and Demyx' manic laughing.

All the things you won't tell Axel.

"And? ..." he hums, not seeming all that surprised by what you've just revealed. He wears a knowing smile, As if the conversation that took place between Xigbar and Demyx had happened already. But according to Demyx' angry whispers, It already has. He's sick of disappearing. Axel's responsible for at least some of the madness swallowing Demyx' common sense.

You can't help but debate whether letting the dirty blonde teenager live was such a good decision. Wouldn't death be better than what he's forced to face now?

"I think," You pause, Unsure of how to phrase it, an attempt to compose yourself. There's no way to deliver bad news and look good while doing so. The receiver is going to hate you regardless.

"I think Demyx killed him, But I can't be sure," you quickly add, Well aware that the spreading pool of dark liquid surrounding the body was enough of an indicator.

Demyx is too far gone for help.

Axel's expression has transformed completely. No more amused smiles, Sneers, Slight grins. His features are full of urgency now, His eyes wide, His mouth pressed into a firm grin.

Like he wants to save the world, but doesn't know how.

His hands are knotted tightly in the bed sheets, and across the room you can hear the slow grinding of his teeth. This is what he worked to prevent, and now it's all falling down around him. His paper walls have collapsed.

But he has nothing to say.

"Why was he listed, Axel? Why does Xemnas want him dead?" You pry again, an unfamiliar threatening tone leaking into your words. For once your in the position of power, Axel reduced to the babbling little baby, not a word of defence prepared. He shrugs, still shaking his head, Angry with himself. His inner turmoil displayed on his frozen features.

"C'mon Ax, You've played the games. You know the rules. You've been in the same situation. C'mon" You offer again, and you're aware of your condescending tone, how you sound like you already know all the answers, you're just toying with Axel.

This is you reducing him to his knees.

This is what you've been waiting for.

"What're you talking about?" he responds, Eyes narrowed, Mouth twisted into an angry snarl. Now you know you've got his tongue in a vice. This is the protective Axel you've only ever seen deal with Xigbar. With Xigbar's death, Axel needs somewhere else to project this angry aspect of his personality.

You're just convenient today, Roxas.

"Kairi told me." With those few words, you see his hold world shatter, Flickers of different colours run through his eyes.

"You were the one assigned to Demyx before. It was your job to kill him. She said you held the gun to his head, But you let him go."

And you can't explain why, But you're getting increasingly frustrated over the whole idea, you're beginning to sound like it was you who wanted Demyx dead. And maybe it is. After all, the princess always falls in love with the villain. And you're no villain for Demyx; there are plenty of people eager to step into that role. And once upon time, that was Axel.

"Why couldn't you pull the trigger?" you voice low now, and you do your best to hide the tremors, Eyes fixed on the floorboards. Axel coughs awkwardly from across the room, a lull in his rage.

Suddenly you can't help but feel like a third wheel, Like the only two people you'd managed to strike up some resemblance of relationship with, Had developed more than that behind your back.

All of your time, searching and chasing for something perfect and you're left here with empty hands and a heavy heart.

And you have absolutely no evidence to support your claims, but your head can't let go of that idea.

"Did you ... Love him?" And the words sounds filthy coming from your mouth. All of your rage turns on Demyx now. Because he can do better than you, and he knows it.

Axel has to fight the urge to break down into fits of laughter.

"Is that what this is about Roxy? You wantin' what you can't have?" His giggling continues until it slowly fades to silence.

"That's disgusting. I saw Demyx as my little brother. I took care of him the way my brother never took care of me. When Xemnas gave me the details of my next hit, I coulda swore my heart stopped. I didn't know what to do. I convinced myself I was tough, I could do whatever, but with the barrel pressed against his head, I couldn't help but feel like I was Reno, Just fuckin' over the younger brother. I had to let'em go. I didn't figure he'd risk comin' back".

He cradles his arms, Searches around the room for some source of security, Finds it in the blue-green gaze of Namine, Looking down like some tarnished saint from your walls. And that's what she is, the more you dwell on it.

The Virgin Mary.

Although not as virginal as the original.

The pretty little teenager, Dressed in white, Simple and clean. And yet she still carries the burden of a baby. A constant reminder to her of the mistakes she made in a past life.

"She's got my son" you mutter simply, deciding maybe it's time you and Axel shared on equal grounds. He reveals to you a dark patch of his own history, In return for one of your own. An ugly balance.

Those acid eyes dart down from the imitation holy pictures, and measure you're expression carefully, searching for some sign of a joke. The exhausted twist to your mouth could never be mistaken as a smile.

"His name's Tidus. He must be nearly three now". It sounds so foreign to speak about your own life as though you're an observer. It's too strange to mention your son in passing conversation. And too tell this story now, Makes Namine seem like the bad guy, taking your child from you, some sick game of treasure hunt.

But she was right.

She usually was.

She saved that child from becoming another you, trapped in the slums for the years the make and breaks a person, Another Axel, Maybe even another Demyx.

She saved your son from a faith worse than death.

"She took off after Cloud's death. I was to upset to pay her much attention. I didn't even know she was pregnant until she wrote to me after he was born".

This sounds like a rehearsed speech, No feeling whatsoever, Just cold facts and a bored tone. And despite what you don't show, Axel reads your mind ridiculously well.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, Unsure of how to console you.

"I'm not crying," you add.

"No. You're not," he confirms sadly. And although it may not seem like much, that simple observation is an indicator of how these streets destroy their inhabitants. Shed tears are a luxury in these parts.

The silence that follows is enough to swallow your sanity whole. You watch as Axel gazes into the streets below, No longer on edge, with word of Xigbar's death. Axel spared Demyx' life once upon a time, and tonight, the sex-obsessed little teenager repaid his debt.

And although you've just shared something private, something human, you can't stop the words from tumbling from your mouth.

"Why was Demyx sentenced? What did he do Axel?"

Axel shakes his head again, a repetitive motion he's becoming all too familiar with. This time a sly smile accompanies it.

"You've seen our resident girly boy fight, Roxas, What more do you want me to say. Isn't that deadly rage of his enough of a reason to put him down?" Axel questions, it's not a direct answer, and He's just teasing you, 'Cause behind those lips, He already holds the answers.

He's just lit the fuse to your temper.

"Demyx has some dirty deeds under the belt of his, and I'm not just talking about the sex. He's done some horrible things in his lifetime, Unforgivable things, Stuff not even you'd overlook. He lost his innocence, and that's one thing that's hard to fake.

Axel seems satisfied with his explanation, retreating once more to his sullen gaze, His outlook on life viewed through the window.

There's an inner explosion in your mind.

"Axel this is no fucking picnic. These are street wars; People fucking do what they have to, to stay alive. Surely you're the poster-child for that."

You're seething, Sharp intakes of breath through clenched teeth. And Axel merely shakes his head and smiles.

"Not me, I woulda said Demyx was a more effective campaign model, You'know?" And he's laughing now, like this is all some really bad joke at your expense.

Like everyone in the streets knows the story apart from you.

You were rarely ever relevant.

"What the hell are you laughing at?" you snap, Fists curled at your sides, Ready to destroy something pretty.

"Oh c'mon Roxas, Haven't you figured it out yet?"

* * *

**There we go. Turning point. Axel's basically just told Roxas what he wants to know. Drama!**

**Sorry this is shit, I've a really swollen throat. So no eating solids or kissing boys this weekend.**

**Yesterday, Me and mum went into one of those really expensive shops, And made like we could afford everything. People love you when they think you're rich.**

**We walked passed this guy busking with his guitar, And mum turns to me and says, "We just walked past a star." She has really high hopes for everyone. I love that.**

**Sorry for the diary entry thing again. I'll shut up now.**


	24. Beating Faster, Faster

**This one is super short, 'Cause it only really needed to be one sentence. It ain't over though, We've already included the majority of the even sins, Although i don't think we've touched on revenge yet ... If that is one ... All i remember is the '7 Sins' were a bunch of ice creams ... Damn ... I'm hungry now!**

* * *

The room falls under an awkward silence, Axel's eyes rooted to you, a coy smile stretching his face at impossible angles. He's silently encouraging you to solve this puzzle by yourself, he's painfully aware you're holding all the cards, you're just unsure of how to play it effectively.

You can't meet his eyes, instead you skim the room, study the blinding white, whisper your silent prayers to Saint Namine, from her crucifix upon your wall, pinned with tacks and frustration. Those eerie, unforgiving blue green eyes give nothing away, just watch you like a rat in a maze, and that's what this underworld of street carnage is, a maze, a maze packed full of dead ends and pointless paths, none of which lead to a better story.

And once again you find yourself along for the ride.

The only thing keeping you attached to the physical is Axel's heaving breathing, Scratching at your ear drums from across the bed. The rhythmic wheeze as his chest rises and falls, His struggle in a body that's about ready to give up on him.

There's confidence in his features, blended in with a faith he doesn't show in anyone else. There's an unshakable belief that you can do this, that you already hold all the relevant pieces of the story, gathered them up in your bloody hands and through them to the stars.

Your inner demons question whether or not you want to solve this murder, or whether you stall for time, Just to stay in this assassin's strange company. These are the people you can't ever find in the real world. 'Sophistication' and 'civilisation' among the words they hold no respect for. Each of them their own person, with their own personalities and their own motives, No two people here can be mistaken.

Axel, Xemnas, Saix, Xigbar, Larxene, Demyx, Kairi, Each of them their own strip of colour in the same rainbow.

These are the people you want to remember, this is the crowd you want to claim you were part of once upon a time.

Solving a murder that's remained an untold story for so long will no doubt force you out of this comfort zone you've created. To expose them would mean to expose yourself.

And up until now, you've managed to deny the truth.

With Axel's acidic eyes burning a hole in your mask, you feel the pressure; you know how much he wants you to know the truth. How much he wants you to get out of here. He wants the best for you. He knows he's already a lost cause.

You haven't killed, Roxas. Not yet anyway.

"Jeez Roxy, I figured you would have solved this one by now" he taunts, uncomfortable with the silence, he's able to here the ticking in your head as your solution rests like a bomb inside. You both wait in silence for the explosion.

You glare at him, and peel yourself from your perch, desperate to run over all the details in your head. Two different cases banging away inside your heap like lump hammers, you're no detective, just a teenage dropout a little out of his comfort zone.

It's been weeks since you first found yourself wrapped up in your brothers mismatched past. And although you promised yourself you'd never find yourself in his situation, as soon as he left the stage, you stepped right into his role, prepared to continue on his pointless story with all the passion you could manage.

Flitters of past words, relevant statements, Faceless voices, the all tumble back to memory, over-riding each other and making your head ache.

_'This morning, local teen Cloud Strife was found, shot execution style, in the industrial district of town. Time of death was estimated to be around midnight last night ...'_

_"Mo__re like my brother? You mean dead?"_

_"Saw you here, Thought maybe you could use the company."_

_"But I guess people like you and me; we got left here for a reason."_

_"This kid is sick. I just thought that maybe we could take him in for a while? Yah'know?"_

_"Out of the question Axel"._

_"I guess they really don't want me hanging around"._

_"I don't know what you have to do with Xemnas, but I assume it's nothing the innocent care to play with"._

_"We've all lost people, Roxas. It's a war"_

_"Trust me Barbie, There's more of a storyline to that little novel, but it goes a little too deep to uproot it now. All you gotta know, Is that Marluxia and Xemnas are on totally different pages, and tonight is not going to go so smoothly"._

_"Fuckin' hell, Demyx?"_

_"A boy. Pretty, Ain't I?"_

_"Axel's an … assassin; I suppose you could call him. Just hired muscle"._

_"Demyx is Axel's only failed assignment. Sure, He's had the barrel pressed against those pretty boys' head,"_

_"But Ax could just never pull the trigger"._

_"Demyx didn't leave. Demyx is dead"._

_"You're a lot like your brother."_

_"That boy was willing to lick his finger and shove it in a socket if it meant drama"._

_"Ironically, The new blood that rustled Demyx' feathers was someone who belonged to you"._

_"I know who loved you Cloud. Tell me who hated you."_

_"Not Xigbar. Demyx. That girly boy lashed out when I tried to break them up"_

_"You've seen our resident girly boy fight, Roxas, What more do you want me to say. Isn't that deadly rage of his enough of a reason to put him down?"_

Axel can't miss the sly grin creeping across your features. It's as thought Saint Namine has taken pity on your sanity, Spared you the torment of your mind running in pointless circles to answer two riddles at once.

You know.

You know it all.

You weren't trying to solve two mysteries.

There was only ever one.

They were both linked. And those gaping blue eyes of yours had easily overlooked the problem.

"Tell me a story, Axel," you say, and it's difficult to camouflage the smile in your voice. Axel does nothing but bare more teeth. It's as though you've finally managed to figure out the punch line to the joke that is your life. It takes every ounce of mental strength to not fall to your knees, laugh, cry and scream.

Very funny.

"Tell me who murdered my brother," you continue, But this smile doesn't feel genuine. It stings your face, pains your brow, gives your eyes a dangerous glint.

"What kinda of motive would someone hold against Cloud?" you ask again in your racing monologue. Your tone suggests you already hold all the answers, you're just dotting the 'i's' and crossing the 't's' in your brother's life story, a short novel with a tragic ending.

"What kinda of excuse is jealousy?" you ask, your voice lower, rapidly running out of speed. Your sigh is exhaustion and realisation. After all, the princess always falls in love with the villain. Demyx wasn't the princess. You were. And you followed the fairytale rules obediently.

Axel whispers from across the blank white space between you. His voice so low you struggle to hear it, but his words nothing but a confirmation of what you already know.

"Demyx always was the jealous type".

.

And you fell in love with your villain Roxas.

* * *

**Yes yes, A lot of annoying flashbacks, Most of those quotes are Axel. Now, DUN DUN DUN! Turning point. So now we know what Demyx did. I'll explain why better in the next chapter. **

**I'm graduating in like, Four hours! And i found out i don't have mumps, So i can actually go! I have streptocockle throat. Yowee. So no kissing boys, Unless they want to taste me medication, Which is like eating paint chips. Yuck!**

**PS Sorry for spelling like a dope.**


	25. You Never Stop, You Just Collide

**I never knew they never knew what you're going through 'cause you got everybody thinking there's nothing wrong and you fell apart 'cause you felt apart ...**

* * *

"You want a story Blondie box?"

Axel can't stop the ugly smirk stretching his face. You've already discovered what he had worked so hard to bury. The story of your brother's past and you're present hammered together like two pieces from different puzzles. He has no reason to thread carefully; He no longer has reason to hide secrets behind those glinting white teeth of his.

You shake your head at another ridiculous reason, and fight down the swelling pride in your chest. There's no reason for faux confidence, not when everyone stalking these streets is looking to add to their body count.

You'll only ever be another notch on a belt, or a bed post.

But you'll still be part of the statistics.

You grimace back the twisted sneer threatening to expose an expression Axel's never seen you model before, something relative to happiness? You quench that little ray of hope quickly.

You may have solved his murder, but you still can't bring him back.

He watches the uncharacteristic twists and knots in your face as you struggle to twist your lips into a pout, and you can't begin to understand why, but you don't want to show this boy your smile, you're not willing to expose yourself to him like that. A smile is a welcoming gesture; Axel is not something you want under your skin.

"You were there at the start of all this Axel. Tell me how it ended," you demand, your voice a little low, your fruitless effort at hiding your smile displaying itself as an ugly smirk.

The little bit of Axel you've stolen for yourself.

His expression on your face.

You wear this street life too well to ever leave it.

He's forming the words behind his lips, Taking great pleasure in reducing the cross-dressing little blond to nothing more than a horrible memory. Axel could never pull a weapon on the girly boy he grew up with; these words are all he has. There's a vicious impact behind them, this secret, a breath he's been holding for years.

"Demyx was a new recruit, He used to fight. Some fucking saint to the underground fight scenes," Axel snarls, but a look of regret in his eyes, a streak of black through the green. He knew Demyx was in ruins from the very start.

"He fought?"

Axel nods absentmindedly, Eyes once more skimming Namine's features from where she watches along the walls. She's become something familiar for both of you, a middle woman, and some sort of abstract communication device between the two of you. A smirk peels at the corner of his lips before those eyes drag up your body to finally meet you eyes, his gaze slick and uncomfortable, like oil on your skin.

"You've never seen under pretty boy's make-up? Dem's still cut up, looks like he's been put through a blender or somethin'," he mutters before returning his gaze to Namine.

"Anyway, that's where Saix found'em, Throwin' fights to earn 'imself a bitta cash. Don't get me wrong, Saix ain't no bleeding heart, But he took Demyx in, said he saw potential in the little whelp."

Axel is smiling fondly, running through memories in his head, an old back and white movie where things were much simpler. Where there were no concerns for double agents or unidentified bodies.

Back when Axel still figured his life was definitely going places.

You don't miss how quickly he lets the pet name 'Dem' slide. And you can't help it, but your jealousy creates ridiculous notions in your head. And with a reputation like Demyx, Who's to say these two didn't get a long both before and behind closed doors. In your brief flash of envy, you can't seem to recall all the ridiculous nicknames he's attempted to pin you with since you met him.

You hate the fact that he lived out the best part of his life before he met you.

"And let's face it, Xemnas would never question Saix, I mean, who would? Unless of course suicide was the mission objective in the first place".

You nod your head in silent agreement, Blue eyes wide at the idea of the potential harnessed in those claws, and the desire for violence trapped behind those gleaming fangs, behind that forced smile.

"Demyx, He was a good guy back then, You'know, One of us? He was fun, always smiling, ready to take on the world and all that, but the guy was as jumpy as hell. Couldn't raise a hand to scratch your head without him jumpin' outta his skin".

Axel doesn't elaborate, He doesn't see a need. He's already underestimated your intelligence. Anyone could piece that puzzle together. Demyx in some sort of fight club arrangement, You can hardly imagine the frail little kid raising a fist to anyone, Although you have no doubts the effects it would have on a persons mentality in the long run would be both obvious and drastic, 'Jumpiness' just a small token of his previous profession.

"Saix went through the motions with him anyway, trying to find out what made him tick. Basically he just wanted to categorize him. See what he was good at."

You glance up, admiring the distant fondness running through his glaring green eyes. His face is relaxed, and it's the first time you recall ever seeing him without that bitter frown. Sure, He laughs, but it rarely reaches his eyes. It's easy to forget the life outside your own private world, and one thing you can guarantee is that, Whatever is out there, Is much more exciting than what's going on inside your own head.

"Saix put him into prostitution?"

Axel almost laughs at your sudden outburst. His eyes rest on you before that warm smile illuminates his face once more.

"You'know? I never got that close to Saix. He was always so ... Dignified? But he strikes me as sorta a prude. I doubt he's even acknowledged the sex in this city."

And it's hard to picture it yourself. Saix does have his dignified mannerisms, polite but unshakable. But then again, there are two sides to every penny, and you've seen that restricted animal struggling for freedom. It's in his eyes, it's in every word he says, his growl, the words are tense, Forced through his teeth. Axel seems like the kind of person to absorb an individuals quirks, to notice the little things that make them who they are. But he seems to have overlooked a major part of Saix. He's only seeing the side he wants to see. The light side. Or maybe he's just too ashamed to admit there's something about the eerily unstable wolf-man that he can't begin to understand.

"Turns out Demyx had sticky hands. Thieving little bastard, But he was fuckin' good at it. Stole my wallet a few times, He'd tell me he was just practising, But it was always empty when he gave it back, Regardless of what had been in it to start off with".

And you've come to realise, you only met Demyx after he'd lived through the best years of his life too.

"Dem started slackin' though, really quickly. He'd been hired to rough up a few people, You'know, People just wrecking Xemnas' head. But people weren't disappearing as quickly as Xemnas had hoped. He got Xigbar to tail him one night, and of course that one eyed bastard was more than willing to comply. He hated Demyx".

A whole new wave of frustration washes over Axel, Maybe a little regret that he couldn't stand up for his weight challenged 'colleague'. Maybe a little pissed than he didn't get to see Demyx finally act out some form of revenge.  
"I can understand why you'd hate him now," You say quickly, a desperate reach at dragging Axel from the darker corners of his mind, "But why didn't they get along back then?"

Axel snorts, making you feel utterly stupid, like suddenly you're the one who can't read people. Like all your hard work has gone to waste.

"Man, I thought that one woulda been obvious," He shrugs before pointing a bruised and bloody finger at his temple, "Picture it up here kiddo. I mean, Look at Dem, And then Xigbar. There wasn't even that many years between'em. Demyx looks like he hasn't even been removed from the box, one of those collectable Barbie's or somethin', And Xigbar just looks like the grave spit him out".

Apparently jealously is a lot more rampant in these streets than what you would have initially assumed.

When you were younger, watching the news reporters on TV, They'd talk about killings and bodies, and the families left behind. But it always seemed to you as though these fights erupted from people simply defending their honour. You figured pride would have been the sin to play a major role here, not jealousy.

Your mouth forms a silent 'o' of understanding, And Axel gages your reaction before continuing.

"Anyways, Xigbar reported back that Dem would just go out to club You'know? But he wasn't back in the fight scene. He was just ... There. Puttin' a smile on his own face as well as other peoples".

"What happened?" You intrude, wondering if this is Axel flipping through a scrap book of memories, or whether he's told himself this story many a night before drifting off the sleep. He knows how to splice together the film reel rolling in his head, to produce something understandable for you.

Your head aches from trying to read his mind.

"Xemnas didn't think there was any harm, just so long as Saix didn't hear anything about his little failure. Xigbar followed him every now and again, just to see what 'sticky fingers' was up to. He reported that Demyx was getting harder and harder to track. Almost like he was just vanishing into the night life."

Axel pauses, almost for dramatic effect, smirking at the anticipation clearly displayed on your face, noting the crushing force of your clenched fists.

"Few weeks later, Demyx started showin' up with handfuls of cash. He'd said it was all stolen goods, You'know, Old habits never die and all that crap, And Xemnas may have taken his word for it, But Xigbar wouldn't. He wasn't so happy to let Blondie away with it that easily."

You interrupt before he can continue, Determined to prove that you still hold some sort of awareness to the world that races by you every day. To show him that you still understand, that you're a grown up now, and you can relate to and sympathise with the situations his words conjure up.

"Lemme guess-" You start, But Axel's already read far enough into your actions to know what you're planning.

"Bingo baby," He exclaims, grinning smugly at the childish pout you wear. He wrings his knuckles before continuing.

"So Xigbar convinced Vexen into doin' a little spy work. You'know, I don't think you know Vexen, but maybe it's for the better. Anyway, Dem knew Xigbar was traipsin' around after him, so he knew to avoid the big guy. But he didn't suspect Vexen, Who was treated to an eyeful more of whatever Xigbar got."

Axel's grin threatens to crack his cheeks, that smile only created from the faint lush across your cheeks. In your head you had eagerly placed Demyx up on some sort of pedestal.

Some unstoppable force.

But the tone in Axel's voice, His choice of words, It all mixes together to remind you of what exactly you had been admiring. A young boy who rented himself out for whatever money he could coax from a customer.

_'It's a sad story, but I guess we wrote it that way'._

"Why'd he do it?" you gulp, Struggling to understand why a boy with a passion for adventures and hopes for life would sell himself out in some back alley where his knees got dirty and no one could hear him cry.

"I hated bringing it up. It took me weeks to even face the thought. Dem was always so... innocent ... or something. He was too young for that sorta crap. We kinda tip-toed around the problem. One of those 'I knew-he knew-I knew' situations. He just told me he hated fighting, But he hated letting people down. I just guessed he'd made all that cash to keep the lord and the fuckin' wolf off his back. It worked anyway ... For a while at least".

The sneer in his voice is enough to capture your attention from trying to imagine life through Demyx' eyes.

"What happened?" you pry again, Desperate now to understand the inner workings of the human disaster that couldn't live out his own life, So stole your brothers.

Axel shakes his head, the movement of a mother scolding her child. But he's smiling the entire time, like this tale is just one enormous weight of his shoulders. Like the consequences of his confession will never reach him in time. He smiles like he has some sort of plan. Some sort of plan B.

You don't dare dwell on what runs through that unstable mind of his.

"Vexen happened. That socially retarded plank couldn't keep his mouth shut. He figured Xemnas and Saix shared a pair of ears, so whatever Xemnas knew, Saix automatically knew too. He mentioned the cash, And Demyx' 'extra curricular' money earning activates. I shit you not; Saix' hands were bleeding from digging his nails into his palms. Fuckin' crazy," He smiles, "But then again, I suppose we're all a little bit insane."

"Anyway," How easily he turns from maniacal to bouncing bubbliness in mere seconds. Did everyone in his little street team harbour some sort of split personality?

"Saix couldn't confront Dem either. There were all these meetings between Saix and Xemnas that got waaaaaaaaaay outta control in Xemnas' office. There'd be shoutin', All from Saix. And then furniture breaking, Saix too I assume. It was fuckin' tense. But everyone ignored the problem, just worked out the kinks on each other. Saix started moping around, Hanging out in bars and clubs really late at night, the guy was looking for trouble."

You've started to patch together Xemnas' brief description of a story you were never part of, and the words that spill freely from Axel's mouth now. In your imaginary timeline, it's about time for Cloud to take to the stage. And as if on cue, Axel opens his mouth to continue.

"Guess what he found instead?" he hums from across the white field of crisp sheet between you. The wrinkles in the material crease and fold and grow across the smooth expanse as you knot your fists in the softness.

"Cloud," you hiss, angry that your brother was involved in a world you've come to admire. You were always the rebellious one, desperate to escape the Strife household and make your own living. And yet here you are, still trapped in the four crumbling walls of what used to be a happy home. Cloud had been raised like a soldier. The picture of obedience and yet it was him sneaking from his window every night to find whatever gave him a rush at night among the concrete and the neon. Another bond of jealousy is realised. You were jealous of the life your brother led.

"You're good at this game," Axel teases, before twisting his eyes up to the ceiling, Ready to read you back a history of the few months that changed his life.

"Saix just so happened to stumble upon one Mr. Cloud Strife, Painting the walls of downtown with any blood that wasn't his own. Cloud used to say he learned everything he knew from his old man, and if that 'old man' is the same dying breed that's crawling around downstairs, I guess that's just an example of how much one person can change in such a short amount of time."

You nod, revealing a little too much of the whites of your eyes as you realise just how much this world has kept on spinning. While you wallowed in pity, in your frustrations over your brothers' death, Namine's abandonment, Hell, Even Hayner's drug habits. It was all your fault, you blamed yourself for everything, and while you worked yourself into an early grave; the world ran ahead and left you behind.

Your father, Demyx.

They're all different from what they used to be.

And your still achingly young, Roxas.

You have to be at least this tall to get on this ride.

"He made a friend if it makes you feel any better," Axel offers, noticing the knots in your brow, in your knuckles, the rigidness of your body. But he's already started bleeding his history to you; He's not willing to stop now.

"Him and Saix. Between them they had the vocabulary of a two month old, but you could just tell they got along. I'd never seen Saix smile before. They'd always stand near each other; it'd be a hand on a shoulder that lingered a bit too long, it was a weird relationship. No one read into it too much. Except Demyx."

And he does it again, Finishes his statement on a high note, enticing you, encouraging you to keep prodding and poking, appealing to your inquisitive nature. Now it's your turn to underestimate Axel. He may not read Saix so well, but to him, you're an open book.

"What do you mean?" and you're feeling ridiculous that you're jealous of Demyx being jealous of someone else.

It's always about the people, never their positions.

"Saix wasn't just making friends; He was helping Cloud edge his way into the gang. Your brother was a force to be reckoned with, Even Xemnas saw it. Xemnas ordered Saix to focus his attentions on Cloud, and that's when Demyx started feeling a little neglected. Everyone saw it, and everyone was just sitting around, Waiting, There was a bomb about to go off and all we could do was watch and force a smile."

"And?" you hum, Desperate for him to continue. Desperate for him to reach the scene where you finally make your entrance. "What happened?"

He smiles.

"Bad-a-boom. Demyx snapped."

He sighs, satisfied that at least now you know where the story begins. But your wide eyes and gaping mouth convince him to keep going, To continue his little story, The one you already know has no happily ever after.

"It was around that time that our little gang started runnin' into little difficulties. You've been to Marluxia's club right? Well, he and Xemnas kinda stood on different view points with regards to the entire situation. They were always harpin' on at each other. Xemnas was tryin' to hold onto Demyx, Just to give the little bastard one more chance, But Marluxia always had his eyes on the prize. He had his money on Cloud, So to speak. He was waiting for execution orders on Demyx."

"And this was were you stepped in?" you ask, Hopeful, Feeling it's nearing your time. But Axel shakes his head.

"Nah. Not yet anyway. So, As I was sayin'", He throws you a teasing look, Waiting for the embarrassed blush across your cheeks before returning to his tale, "Marluxia's one of these people who's all, you'know, 'I'm nobodies bitch', so he went out and bought the club with the stash of cash Demyx had earned, just a nice one fingered salute to Xemnas, A big ol' 'fuck you', just to show he still had some independence."

You can't see what the turbulent past between Marluxia and Xemnas has to do with your brother's death, but you let him continue, assuming there's some point to this story, admiring his attention to detail.

"Xemnas didn't react, why would he though? The guy's got amazing self-control. Anyway, Marluxia hired this broad, Tifa, as a dancer, and she was trying to convince some old friend of hers to get a job there too."

"Aerith" you interrupt, Pleased with the surprised expression on Axel's face, A little alarmed that you're suddenly able to interrupt his story with facts.

"Excuse me?" he purrs, arching a blood-red eyebrow, a coy smile on his lips.  
"Aerith," You continue, ignoring the ache his smile creates in your stomach, "The brunette girl, she danced there the night we were there".

Axel nods slowly, a dawning understanding on his face before you add, "My brother's girlfriend".

He nods again, but he's still beaming from ear to ear, like he already knew this, like he was expecting you to say it. Like he was just waiting for you. And for some reason, that simple fact seems highly relevant.

"Exactly," He purrs, your blood boiling with anticipation. Now you're on the same wave length.

"Your brother went to Marluxia's with Aerith and that Tifa girl one night, just to see what his girlfriend was getting involved with. Can't be too careful on these streets," He sneers, A belated warning, "Just so happened, Demyx was roaming around in there the same night, Looking for a little casual get together."

You nod; Shocked into silence by what you know lurks just around the corner.

"Demyx invites your brother out for a smoke, And Cloud, being almost as gullible as you are sunshine, follows the sneaky little bastard out. Needless to say, the only smoking bein' done was from the barrel of the gun that kissed your brothers head".

It amazes you how casually he speaks about it, talking of death like an old friend, or a regular occurrence. But you assume for Axel, That's exactly what it is. Someone to sit down and share a laugh with.

"That bastard," you attempt to snarl, to show Axel you're adult enough to handle the truth, but you explanation is more of a whimper, a sad sigh. You've given up the fight, as though you could bring your brother back with stupid determination.

"I'm not crying," You whisper in a weak, cracked voice, a phrase becoming alarmingly popular in your mind.

And then comes the expected response from the sighing red head.

"No. You're not."

Predictable.

Axel keeps his mouth running on auto, anything to hide the fact that your shoulders tremble but no tears fall. You appreciate his effort to cover your moment of weakness. And you can't understand why you want to cry. Is it because Cloud's missing out on all of this, or is it because he's left you alone? You don't bother to dwell on it, your thoughts carried far from it by the sounds of Axel's low voice.

"Marluxia caught the whole thing on camera, and brought it back to Xemnas, Trying to prove that he wasn't the only one desperate to revolt. Like a mini-mutiny. He was threatening to make it word on the street that good ol' Xemnas had absolutely no control over his ranks. Suddenly one of the most elite street teams would become fair game. If anyone knew that the bonds of our little gang were in tatters, that woulda been it, You'know? So Xemnas offered another option."

He pauses, debating how he's going to phrase his words, but you mistake his silence for an ending, and open your mouth to coax him along in that shattered voice of yours.

"What option?"

Axel glances over, green eyes filled for a second with a flash of sympathy before it's washed away as his mind sinks back to his past.

"He'd offer Marluxia his freedom. Walkin' away from Xemnas just was not done without some sort of string attached. There was always a risk that the person escaping would leak inside information onto the streets. Xemnas was puttin' a lot on the line lettin' Marluxia walk away from him with a 'get out of jail free' card. But they managed an agreement. Marluxia was gone by the next day. That was the beginning of the end for our happy little gang. We were all faced with the same decision. Who did we trust with our lives? Our numbers divided in two that day."

But you can't understand where Demyx' punishment happens, If there even was a punishment, It seems the world continued on without the little murderer too.

"What happened Demyx?" you wheeze, struggling to understand the intricate little web he's spun you.

And he smiles.

"This time Demyx didn't know we knew. He assumed we'd think Cloud was just another random victim of violence. He kept coming back, another chance at his position, the one Cloud was taking over. It was only a matter of time before Dem found out what we knew. And we knew he'd run. Someone like Demyx is not someone you want running around the streets holding valuable information about the inner workings of our gang, especially not with his penchant for gossiping."

Axel tries to laugh, but it comes out a deflated, defeated sound.

This joke isn't as funny.

"Xemnas ordered me to bump him off before he got a chance to run."

And this is where your curiosity gets the better of you, and your mouth has already spun into action before you have a chance to debate tact.

"How did Demyx get away if he didn't know you knew?" Your eyebrows are knotted in the effort to understand, your eyes are focused on the bed sheets, the stark white where nothing lingers to distract you from the facts you've gathered.

"Easy" Axel declares cheerfully before his voice recaptures that menacing tone you've only ever heard him use on Xigbar.

"I told him".

Axel didn't belong in these streets; He was too colourful, too human. He had a heart, and he had a conscience. Where any of the other's would have stood strong, Axel crumbled. He couldn't kill his friend. He couldn't kill Demyx. Instead, He let danger free; Let it lurk through the streets under an alias for years. Let it retreat back to it's old habits of violence and sex, And ignored it's existence until it was too late, Until Xemnas already discovered the little blonde as a little more active than he should be.

Axel continues, Not bothering to explain his actions, Not bothering to elaborate on why he felt he had to save Demyx' life.

"Demyx ran off, and I offered to work under an alias, Hoping Demyx wouldn't be able to track me down and get himself in worse trouble. I never followed him though. I never knew what he did with himself."

"What brought you back on the scene?" You hiss, Angry now that the man who set you brothers killer free, is sitting on the same bed, searching for your sympathy.  
He doesn't seem phased. Continues on like you don't matter.

"Actually, I'd met Kairi years ago, through the bar man working in Marluxia's. Found out she was a street walker, And knew she'd probably, at some stage, End up running the same circuits as Dem. I gave her a brief description; Said it was subject to change, and gave her my number, told her to call me if anything suspicious was goin' on. A few months after I'd put all this behind me; imagine my face when her number pops up on my phone. She tells me about this little blonde girl who'd taken up camp just down the street from her. Called herself Melody. Demyx' didn't spring to mind immediately. I just thought I'd check it out for Kairi's sake. She didn't seem comfortable with the new girl. Of course every time I go there, This Melody kid is missin'. Kairi calls me back a few days later, Tells me there's a new kid snooping around, looking for the little blonde girl. Asked me to check it out. And guess what I find?"

You roll your eyes, too absorbed in your loathing of him to recall what he's just said. You shrug; Mutter some words that barely fit into the English language.

"You Roxas. I found you." He says lightly, genuine smile lighting up his face. It's like magnetism, you can't help but feel your own anger melt away at the sight.

Like he's convinced you were a discovery worth mentioning.

"It was young hanging around, I don't know what you were looking for, and even now, you look too innocent to be looking for the kind of company those street girls offer. And then there was that one day, you finally approached her, asked her to some cafe, and I followed you."

You smile fondly at the memory, "You really shouldn't smoke indoors, Let alone at all," you offer.

"Yeah well ... It got me what I wanted. She looked over, and I soon as I saw her, I knew. Demyx always had such lonely eyes, Like he was constantly about to burst into tears. And I recognised those eyes straight away. And he knew it."

And you already know how the story continues, Axel takes a deep breath from across the sheets, His eyes darting to Saint Namine once again, Asking for some silent acceptance, Some precious reward for finally offering up all the secrets he'd hidden for so long. A present for finally admitting the truth.

Your mind is reeling. And Demyx' deeds outdo each other. The young man who killed your brother, the only family you had left, worth calling family. And yet, focusing your anger on those lost ocean blue eyes becomes a difficult task. That same boy introduced you to Axel, Who's shown you a darker, deeper side to a life filled with death and violence and any other vice anyone should care to throw in the mix. Your mind is torn, you don't know who to hate, your lover, the murderer, Or your best friend, the executioner who let the killer go.

You've heard one, but there's always another side.

Another story to add to your collection.

"I need to go," You gush suddenly, and although that phrase usually implies a visit to your brother's worn graveside, this time you hold different intentions in mind.

"I need to speak to Demyx," you whisper, more to yourself than Axel, Who still manages to decipher your barely audible words. He stretches across the sheets, lying on his back, Red-rimmed eyes closed, an expression of peace on his face, something you hadn't been expecting to see for an awfully long time.

"Why would ya wanna do a crazy thing like that? Let the storm run its course," he grumbles through a yawn, an arm thrown lazily over his eyes. As if that brief trip through the history books has exhausted him beyond all reason.

"We're together," you declare before you can button your lips together. The red flush across your cheeks would suggest you hadn't even been expecting something like that to leak out. Axel sits up; studying you with that fine eyebrow raised again, a confused twist to his mouth. You see him repeat the words to himself, internally running them over as you internally scold yourself. As if Demyx sucking you off surrounded by strangers was considered a loving relationship. Axel still looks stunned, managing to struggle his words into formation.

"Kairi says he's been in and out of Marluxia's for the past few days."

You nod gratefully, Unsure of how to thank your shocked guest. But by the time you glance from your hands to his face, He's already found his stability, already stumbled to his feet.

"I guess all my demons are laid to rest for tonight" he mutters, Studying the street below, As if he almost expects to catch sight of the gleaming white streak of Xigbar's hair, The sharpshooter assassin searching for him.

"Nice to meet you Namine," he offers to the photographs as he makes his way to the door.

Before you say your goodbye's Standing in the cold, Neon lit streets, watching each other expectantly, Axel sighs, and a white plume of steam forming from his breath.

"Things are gonna change 'round hear Roxas. Tonight feels like the beginning of something better."

And years from now you'll look back on his statement and laugh to yourself. Because it never really did get better.

Not for him anyway

* * *

**Note note note. Leon's gonna make an appearance. I totally forgot about him. How Embarrassing. But yeah, We've got like, 3 chapters left altogether, So bare with me!**

**PS, Anyone wanna suggest a second name for Xemnas? Or Saix. Doesn't matter which one.**

**PSS, High five to DearJamie who is freakin' amazing at guessing what's gonna happen! Talk about readin' it straight out of my head! Supercool!**

**PSSS Larxene in CoM is a total legend, Kinda regretting makin' her a bi-otch. On that note, Vexen is also a lejbox!**

**Man i am fairly freakin' tired. I have massively important exams next week, As in last exams ever. But i can't bring myself to care. I just spend all my spare time sleepin'. Mmmm. Sleep. Put a whole buncha new music on my Zen, Including some Jesse McCartney. He's so hardcore. Totally! lol. Anyone got any good bands they wanna recommend?**


	26. I'm Using You, My Little Decoy

**You've never been so used as I'm using you, abusing you, my little decoy, don't look so blue, you should have seen right through, I'm using you. My little decoy.**

* * *

The parting was brief, soundless, just a glance of goodbye from eyes ringed with the ordeals they were mastered by. A flash of blonde and troubled blue, Disappearing into the darkness, and like each and every parting before, Axel once again hopes he makes it back from the wrong side of the Styx.

Since their first encounter, Axel has watched the electrical storm fizzle and dim under the heavy black smog of the city streets, But Roxas holds his passions close to his heart, And his alternative motives are scratched on the inside of his eyelids, A place only he can see. He holds his secrets where no one can pass judgement. As much as he's offered the assassin an entrance, He's never let him in, Just let him believe. As much as they acknowledge the barest friendship, it too has no solid foundations, just an accident waiting to happen.

Axel drags the entire weight of a troubled past on his heels, His shoulders hunched with the pressure of its population breathing down his neck.

Claustrophobic in the deserted city streets.

His nimble hands shoved deep in jean pockets, His fingernails snagging and catching in the material as he picks and prods it, a slight distraction on the rapid downward spiral of insanity. There's voices' echoing from distances, like the shadows of the buildings talking. This death march towards Xemnas' hideaway being his walk of shame through his past present and future. His hands sticky, his throat dry, a slight tremor running through his bones. He can't understand why he continues to endure life's awkward little challenges, can't understand why he willingly strides back into Xemnas' open arms, Into Saix' trembling claws. His voice of reason screeching somewhere buried deep in his mind, warning him of the corrupting effects one little blonde's appearance had on his entire life story.

"Axel?" a high-pitched shriek rings from the darkness lining the walkways.

He rolls his eyes, a familiar smirk stretching across his features. Hands gradually un-knot themselves from deep in his pockets, he forces all of his energy into some state of relaxation, struggles to keep the tight lines forming on his face.

Yuffie is some elaborate changeling in his life, a mother, a conscience, a lover.

A warning alarm if the concerned expression on her face is anything to judge by.

She bursts, light-footed and energetic, from the curling shadows, her eyes flashing briefly, a strange combination of relief and total lack of control worn across her face. Axel stops to soak up her radiating optimism before she quenches it, sharing whatever it is that makes her expression so pinched. Her lively gallop stops suddenly, the tips of her toes in line with his, her nose only inches from his own. Her brows are knotted, her mouth twisted in a grim sneer, lacklustre eyes stare into his own, narrowed and filled with a woman's rage.

Her expression so foreign to her face, it distracts him from the swift slap she delivers. Standing back, hands planted firmly on slender hips, a smile of childish pride, she snorts as he slowly brings his own hand up to nurse the now reddened patch stretching along his concave cheek. Despite his best efforts to conceal it, she revels in the shock leaking from his 'o' shaped mouth.

"You?! You disappear for ages, suddenly show up lookin' for a quickie and then run off again when that little blonde wuss shows up? Amn't I in a position to hear at least SOME half-assed excuse before you go frolicking around the city collecting new playthings?"

Her voice reaches alarming heights, each word raising another octave, each syllable attracting someone's attention, another head turned towards a woman's wrath and its unfortunate victim. The expressions on her face don't match the tone of her wailing, a sly smirk reaching her eyes, But a voice screeching bloody murder.

This is her idea of a joke, and it situations like this, It's all he can do to laugh.

"Nice to see you too, Yuf," he offers, voice low, coated with all the charm he can force with such short notice. His vain attempt at redemption, praying someone nearby will overhear his friendly greeting; Understand the joke, instead of their mutterings of "Jesus, that guy, Can't he just keep it in his pants?"

Yuffie smirks, a smile renewed, not once peeling her stare from the hazy green gaze glaring back.

"It's a good question, you'know." she snorts, folding her thin arms over her skeletal chest, eyes cautiously reading him the entire time.

Yuffie also, more the frequently, held the position of 'The barer of bad news'.

He can almost see her considering her options behind bright amber eyes.

"What's up?" he asks, exhausted, breathing out the question on a heavy sigh, and the motion in itself visibly jolts the young girl, her joints freezing and her mouth hanging slack, obviously not prepared to share her little nugget of information. His eyes wander, growing tired of her amazing ability to overlook questioning, her mouth opening and closing as she attempts to prepare some sort of smart comment, something to set the looming red-head back in his place.

"Xaldin's looking for you," she says simply, not seeing the immediate devastating effect to her words. "Says it was urgent news, about ... Sam? Sally? Sex?"

"Saix. S-A-I-X," he interrupts, clearly agitated.

"Whatever," she grumbles; rolling her eyes for emphasis, before realising the ridiculously negative effect this whole encounter has had on the proud assassin. She can't help the sympathy that swells in her throat. Eyes so bright and green, like a chemical fire, should never look so dark.

"Ax, How come every conversation we have, involves me warning you about something?" It's a rhetorical question; she's well aware Axel's unwilling to answer questions about his own failing character.

He shakes his head slightly, As if the smooth motion will allow her probing to just roll off his back. He's hardly interested in his own life these days, always caught up in the quick movement of someone else's.

"You shoulda gone with Reno, Axel. You wouldn't have to be like this," she says quietly, her voice dying to a whisper, her gaze falling to the concrete.

She had known Reno, Grown up with the two brothers, Filled with vitality and colours, moods and emotions. The kind of company people sought out, with its own voice and its own attitude. Rarely would she encounter one of the red-heads without the other in tow. It was when her teens rolled around, Reno and Axel suddenly chose very different lifestyles, no longer willing to co-operate, although, annoyance seemed like some sort of mission on Axel's part. Reno was only as tolerant as his highly flammable patience would allow, and with barely a word of warning, he took off, disappearing into a concrete maze like so many had done before. During his last few years, Reno forgot how to smile, lost his sense of humour somewhere along the path of life, and instead, dedicated his time trying to convince the war torn mind of his little brother, that there was a better world out there, they could join up anytime.

Of course, 'Anytime' gradually became 'next year' became 'next month' became 'next week' became 'tomorrow'.

Reno was gone before Axel understood the opportunity he'd turned down.

And he still wanders the streets, with blood on his hands and 'lost' written on his forehead.

Like some sort of phantom from a fairytale, the one who got left behind.

With her wandering thoughts and ventures into a happier past, she almost misses his response. Not the usual frustrated, misdirected rage that follows mention of Reno's name. His expression falls, a whole new mood taking control of him, He offers a weak smile before muttering, "I know".

Yuffie's own ears taker longer than necessary to process his admittance, like some sort of revelation. She glances up slowly, ensuring there's no joke to this finalisation. His hanging head and watery smile suggest a painful truth.

"I know?" she asks, her voice stronger than before, her tone confused and annoyed, a little frustrated that it's taken him so long to realise his brother didn't plan on stealing him, he had wanted to save him.

"Ax, this time a few days ago you would have beaten me bloody for mentioning his name, and now all of a sudden you agree with me? What the hell is going on? Has this 'Sex' guy made you stupid as well as scared?"

Axel shakes his head, a bitter laugh exploding from his lips, but his gaze never lifting off the concrete.

"He's my brother, I guess I just ... Miss him sometimes," he offers, feeling every bit like some unknown actor in another pathetic soap opera, but at that moment, he feels a tearing, painful understanding of what Roxas feels. The white pain of loss. Admittance is just the first step, there's worse to follow.

Yuffie's eyes are glassy, the flaring amber now watering and quivering. Her twiggy arms outstretch, offering a weak and uncomfortable hug, some ridiculous attempt at celebration, the salvation of a teenage boys conscience, but he brushes past her arms, a grim look set upon his face, His fists once more shoved deep in his pockets, hissed mutterings and vague swears reaching her ears.

"I gotta go clean a few things up," he mutters to the shadows, long since having breezed past the withering little girl with big eyes and big hope. He's reluctant to physically contact anyone, not after the faint ghosts of touches he's shared with Roxas, the memories stored away for safe keeping. The beginning of his new collection of happy memories. He tells himself he's making changes, transforming his life into something worthwhile. But he'll never admit to avoiding contact for fear of washing away Roxas' timid touch, Fingertips that hold potential, a boy with aspirations to escape this dark concrete city.

And for all he's worth, Axel prays those aspirations and that potential are contagious.

* * *

This part of town is a new experience for you. The faces lining the buildings belong to a new cast of actors. The costumes are a little more elaborate, the colours more vibrant, but the sorry never changes. This is your feet carrying you obediently after the little blonde stripper. The boy you're desperate to know more about. The boy desperate enough to commit murder. You've heard the words, Captured them falling from Axel's pretty mouth, but you've gathered that each story has two sides and each killer hides a motive.

Despite the number of people taking refuge in the shadows, Not one pair of eyes follows your frantic running, Like they almost expect to see you here. Like once again you're the butt of everyone's joke, Just Demyx' new boy toy, and you imagine they all share glances, Muttering, "There goes another one".

You quickly busy your thoughts; Recollect the last conversation you shared with Axel. His eyes tired and his voice lower, but his shoulders broader, his posture straighter, like someone recovering from a massive weight on their shoulders.

Like someone after facing a confessional.

His smile seemed genuine, timid, real and frail, but you had nothing to compare it to. You weren't part of his past, and you may part before the future. You like to convince yourself that his slight turn of lips was something you caused, and something you both appreciated. His hand gestures suggested he was struggling to piece a sentence together, like suddenly, because he had nothing to hide from you, he was exposed, he was uncomfortable.

He had no shield, and that's exactly what you wanted to see.

An assassin taken down from his high perch among the food chain, the sense of satisfaction running through your veins has yet to dim. You knew where your heart lay, as did he, although he was a little more reluctant to face the idea. You too knew where his footsteps would lead. A battle of wits and pathetic verbal reasoning in Xemnas' office. You shook hands, and headed to opposite directions of your dark worlds. As you navigated your way around puddles and dark stains he's said something to you that captured your attention, and even now as you search out the streets to steal your own heart back, your thoughts still replay his words as though they hold some significance.

"I'll countdown the days 'til I see yah again".

He'd said it as a private joke, like a man marching to his death, but maybe that's all Xemnas held for him.

A bleak future.

Why are you looking for Demyx?

Are you offering some sort of salvation?

Why not offer Axel the same?

Your thoughts flash back to the night of Xigbar's murder, the thick paste of blood slathered all over the tarmac, the sharp, haunting shadows the moonlight threw across Demyx' face. Those sky blue orbs nothing but dark, hollow carvings. His manic laughter, a boy utterly at a loss for the right response, searching through his mind for something appropriate and drawing nothing from his lips but a nervous giggle that soon developed into outright hysteria.

Like someone new on the murder scene.

But you know that's a lie, Cloud is a testament to that.

Your mind is tripping over memories and irrelevant freeze frames; you can't seem to focus on the stretching road ahead of you. The crowds littering the streets have become thicker, the neon lights brighter, the sights and smells a little livelier in comparison to your death-trap across the city. You vaguely recognise these buildings, their names, from the night Axel had insisted you tag along, watch him drink himself stupid and subject himself to the mind games of the blonde woman. He wanted you to supervise his self destruction and keep him on track. After all, He claimed no one else was able to kill him, so why should he not have a chance. You and turned your back on the desperate pleas of a man who's realised he's made mistakes. And you may think you look down on him from a high pedestal, But in reality, you stand together as equals. And at times like this the despair knocks the air from your lungs. No one gets out of here alive, like Axel's said before, this place is a death trap, and you're just killing time.

Standing hunched over and exposed, Fingernails dug deep in the bone of your thighs, chest heaving with a struggle for air, Eyes stinging at the corners and skin aching for a cool breeze, someone finally bothers to launch an inquiry as to why a little blonde kid decided to take a late night stroll in the neon district. It was a just a matter of time. You don't recognise the voice, but the tone manages to freeze the blood in your veins. Suddenly you're dealing with more of a chill than you care to handle.

"Lost kid?" he asks, voice curling, slimy, like some reptile, forked tongue slurring his 'S's. You make no move to meet this stranger's eye for fear of your back snapping under the pressure of the icy chill dancing along the notches of your spine.

He laughs, His voice climbing and falling in pitch, each huff of air slow and pronounced, like he's just toying with you. From the corner of your eye you notice a small group of people shuffle farther away from the hissing snake leaning above you.

"We don't often see new blood 'round here. 'Least not without Marluxia's say so. Where you from?"

Your mind switches to overdrive at the mention of the name. Marluxia, The club, Axel had said Demyx was staying with him.

"Marluxia?" you ask aloud, voice choked and hoarse, struggling to glance up, and meet the deadly glare of this entertained stranger. Your inquiry quickly peaks his interest.

"You don't know who Marluxia is? You ARE lost little boy," he's smirking, a vicious upturn at the corners of his mouth. Atomic green eyes glare back at you, the lines and folds around them suggest age rather than stress. His hair falls free about his shoulders, the blond strands meticulously combed and cleaned. An eccentric sight among the street people. He's towering and thin, looming over you like some deadly predator. His arms tightly folded across his chest, regarding you with strange fascination.

A rare specimen.

"Vexen," he declares proudly, A jagged hand thrust towards your face, You shake your head at the offer, Standing up at your own will, straightening your back and enjoying the satisfying crack that rings through your body. He continues to watch you, highly entertained by your appearance. He adjusts the arms across his chest, nodding towards a building across the street, Dilapidated and neon lit, a fog of cigarette smoke blurting out any signs of life in the windows.

"I work for Marluxia," he says simply.

You take your time absorbing the details of the building opposite, Assuming this is where Marluxia likes to hide when he isn't watching the world fall apart from the throne room in his club. A row of windows are boarded on the third floor, But beams of yellow light still cut through the darkness and leak out onto the street, illuminating the creatures of the nightlife.

"I came to see Marluxia," But before you snatch a chance to elaborate further, Vexen interrupts, Standing a little more on edge, revealing a little of his defensive side, immediately unsettling you.

"What business you got with'em? You a client? A cop?" He runs his glittering eyes over you once more, "A cop. Yeah right, they're desperate. But not this much".

You let the insult roll back over two jutting shoulder blades, aware that you're hardly a poster boy for Shinra's elite.

Take a deep breath a mentally prepare yourself, every time Demyx' name is mentioned, it does nothing but stir up trouble and painful memories.

"I came to see him about Demyx. I know he's staying here."

Vexen looks truly intrigued now, so many questions poised behind his thin lips, but so little time to bombard you with them. You can easily imagine him struggling to prioritise behind those glinting shards of green.

"What's The Little Mermaid done now?" he hisses, thoroughly annoyed at the mention of the blonde's name. Perhaps its pronunciation holds a tone that only the speaker can't hear. It makes these street dogs crazy.

Like he's played and cheated everyone's game.

Now it's your turn to list your questions in order of importance, and Vexen easily understands what you're doing, studying you and noting characteristics, height, weight, and hair colour.

A fact based creature boasting a photographic memory.

The little mermaid? Surely if Demyx is in and out of this safe house, his fellow room mates are already aware of his early morning habit of visiting the beach, the boy's natural obsession with water. You can confirm he tastes like the ocean, threatening and infinite. Vexen didn't seemed too alarmed that you were already aware of Demyx' real name, Like he was relieved he didn't have to hold onto a burning secret any longer.

What has he done now?

What do you say?

How do you answer that?

Demyx seems to have dabbled in all the vices this city has to offer.

Do you mention the murder, the prostitution, the lying or Cloud?

What keyword is this man waiting to hear before he offers up more information?

Your eyes tell a whole different story, and show how you think like open windows. Vexen reads your discomfort, your confusion, you struggle to answer his questions and meet his standards all at once. Clearly too much to force on a newbie. He interrupts before you have to humiliate yourself by speaking.

"I'm sure if you ask nicely enough, Marluxia'll talk to you".

"Ask?"

"Like I said, I'm Vexen, and I'm his ... Personal assistance."

* * *

Axel prowls the streets, Confining and concealing himself to the shadows. His head aches with the promise of verbal assault from Xemnas, the cutting words of a man who knows his position of superior is a stable one. He only hopes Saix has some reason to disappear for today, and as the building looms overhead, those hopes strengthen and sting at the back of his head.

A black, empty shadow hugging the doorway is a nagging reminder of Xigbar's absence, of the life Demyx took into his own hands.

He wonders if Xemnas has already received word of his bodyguards' sudden 'incapacitation'.

The hallways are silent, unusually so, considering the colourful collection of drug addicts Xemnas likes to call company that usually litter the floor, spewing fantastic fairytales they claim as life stories. It amuses him to see someone much worse off than he.

There's no sound of stomping footsteps, snarling or snapping, the furious growling of an angry Saix. It lights a spark of confidence in him, if only a little, and for the umpteenth time that night, He finds himself wondering aloud, 'Why do I keep coming back?" And still he can't grasp at answers. Perhaps some sick obsession with mental torture, some feeling of commitment, something he owes to one of his gang members. Each of his solutions ring out, And his head swims with possibilities, although one quickly forces its way to the surface.

Some desperate attempt to separate himself from his do-good brother, no longer just Reno's little brother, but the black sheep, the bad egg, the rotten apple.

So many colourful titles and not one involving his brothers name.

Or maybe this runs deeper, a self-induced punishment for letting Cloud's murderer run free. It hadn't nagged his conscience, had barely even made its mark in his memories, at least, not until he met Roxas. Proof that every single person who meets their end in these streets, came from a family, who may have loved them, May have hated them, But at least FELT for them. He saw, first hand, the repercussions Cloud's death had on Roxas, and absorbed that, figured that's how he learned to sympathise with his own brother's situation.

Perhaps it's Roxas he owes his debt to. His own best friend drives him to this, but he follows willingly.

His hand is resting on the door handle to the deathly quite office before he realises, the cold of the brass sending jolts up his arm.

He knocks gently with his knuckles, praying he's not heard, so he can find home, wherever that may be, and at least convince himself that he tried.

As he turns to leave, Xemnas' voice snakes out from beneath the door, hissing with a silent rage Axel has never witnessed before.

"Who is it?" he struggles to maintain some level of familiarity in his voice, the eerie calm, but his true feelings easily bleed out.

"Axel," he croaks, palming his head, frustrated and angry with himself for insisting on returning.

"Come in," Xemnas calls, Voice completely transformed. It's cool and confident again, Satisfied, Holding promises of pain to come. Axel cringes before gently pushing the door open.

Xemnas is seated on his desk, Legs folded elegantly, Papers clutched in each hand, As though some effort to look like Axel's appearance is doing nothing but disturbing his work.

"I figured it was about time I checked in. Heard there's a lot of ambulances on the streets tonight," Axel mutters, conversing with his converse rather than the silver-haired genius planted on the desk with that amused smirk on his lips.

"Check in?" Xemnas asks, Almost sounding totally puzzled, Another act to play with his employees mind, "Well, At least it makes one of you," he snarls suddenly, alerting Axel that perhaps he knows more than he's mentioned. Perhaps he's already aware of Xigbar's murder. Axel racks his brains, trying to establish who else would need to check in?

Demyx is officially A.W.O.L and Saix as second in command isn't watched like an idiot.

Zexion comes and goes, more absorbed in his drugs than his intelligence.

The two idiots, the two vital for operations to run smoothly.

The body guard and the assassin.

Xigbar and Axel.

And now Xemnas is officially on his own, without his bodyguard bitch, and his tone would suggest he's already fully aware of the circumstances.

"Sephiroth informed me of an 'incident' that occurred earlier this evening." he says simply, but those words hold the deadly impact he was hoping for. Axel visibly bristles. His face looking a little more gaunt than usual, His eyes looking a little tortured in their purple framed prison.

Sephiroth, The man running the floor in A&E in one of the better areas of town.

Axel knows.

He's visited the guy multiple times.

A silent, Stoic man, hardly capable of stringing three words together. He'd often got stitched up for free, One of the benefits of working for Xemnas, A close personal friend of Sephiroth's. It was Sephiroth who had been called to the scene the night of Cloud's shooting, only to declare there was nothing he could do upon arrival.

Cloud was already long gone by then. It was just a matter of carrying on the next morning without him.

"Apparently, Xigbar was shot. Can you believe it?" Xemnas asks, although he voice hardly sounds amused. He sounds inconvenienced. Like avenging Xigbar is just a waste of his time. He'd rather waste that time being thoroughly pissed at his half-assed, hired killer.

"Stranger still, Sephiroth mentioned a single stab wound to the head. You wouldn't happen to know what caused that, Would you Axel?" he purrs, His voice taking on that light and airy tone once more, as a mask for his irritation. He's taunting and teasing, waiting for his red-headed underling to verbally explode. Axel never holds his tongue for very long.

"A heel, Strangely enough," he continues, "As in, a woman's shoe".

Axel audibly gulps.

"I assume, Axel, and I assume I'm assuming correctly," He smirks, "but I have a feeling that local gender-confused little tramp is tied closely to this case. Do tell me I'm assuming correctly."

"Who found the body?" Axel asks quietly, a strange characteristic to associate with him. Silence not something he wears very well. It does nothing to compliment his loud voice.

In the moments it takes Xemnas to mentally prepare a satisfying answer supplying the least information and further irritating the flame-haired murderer, Axel says his own silent prayer, asking god to exclude Roxas from this one, praying it wasn't Roxas who found the body, praying that his little blonde friend doesn't step into the limelight of his own twisted life story.

"Some red-haired girl. But it's not relevant Axel. You tell me what you know," Xemnas demands, strutting around his desk to comfortably seat himself in the battered chair behind it. Getting comfortable before Axel bombards him with lies and distracting stories, any effort to redirect the limelight.

Once again, Axel sinks into the uncomfortably uncharacteristic silence, his eyes simply watching and measuring Xemnas' reaction, His movements, wondering where the physical injury is going to come from.

Xemnas sighs, realising his staring is fruitless, the only information Axel will supply will have to be bled from him. Xemnas' rage makes him irrational. The loss of another man.

Cloud, Demyx, Now Xigbar.

Who's Mother Nature going to steal next?

"Axel. Tonight I lost someone else, as a result of a job you were assigned years ago, a job you never carried through on. A failed assignment. It seems your little failed experiment is a little out of your control now. I am not impressed Axel. I was hoping you'd admit something to me, At least try to redeem yourself. But you're useless at that too."

Xemnas takes a shaky breath, holding his head in his hands and whispering his words to the table top.

"Is this about Xigbar, or Cloud?" Axel asks bravely, a rejuvenated sense of life and anger pumped into his words. His fists curled by his side, qs if he actually believes he's capable of destroying a gang leader with his bare hands with no resistance from his opponent.

"This, Axel," mutters Xemnas, clearly exhausted with the unfortunate circumstances he's once more faced with, but like a practised professional, once more taking them in his stride, "This is about Xigbar".

He pauses, glances up through thick lashes, the smirk across his lips stops Axel's heart dead in his chest.

"But that," He says, amused and highly entertained, but showing about as much emotion as he's usually capable of. One trembling finger points at Axel, and it's too late before Axel realises Xemnas wasn't pointing at him, he was pointing behind him, indicating someone else hovering in the shadows.

"That .. Is about Cloud," he says simply as Saix leaps from the darkness, the glint of steal in his claws as he presses the knife point dangerously close to Axel's eye.

"I have a body to go and identify. Have fun you two".

* * *

Vexen shoves you before a paint blistered door, the faint sounds of orchestral music leaking out from beneath it. He taps fiercely on the soft wood. His knuckles are bloody and bruised; His fingers burnt and blistered, the symptoms of a man with a fetish for chemicals. Probably worked in some meth lab. Probably supplied Hayner at some stage in his short life.

"Yes?" purrs a voice from the other side, the voice wavering, a laugh ringing through it. Vexen doesn't offer any advice, doesn't say anything to the speaker hidden on the other side of the portal. His acid eyes don't even settle on you again before he takes his leave, Once more stealing himself out into the colourful night life.

You gingerly push the door open, fingers creeping around the corner before your body follows. The sight behind the door stuns you into silence. What a strange little world this Marluxia character operates. A neon lit wonderland. The walls and ceiling, pitch black, the floors some dark shade you can't make out in the dim lights. Heavy materials, dark and dreary hung over the windows. Various flowers hang and curl around the furniture.

An oasis in the concrete, a private world for Marluxia.

Along any solid surface lie bottles of several shapes and sizes, each holding obscure coloured liquids, catching the light from the few candles littered about the room. Like home made glow sticks. A desk stands in the middle of the room, and the creator of this elaborate little world sits atop it. Bare feet hanging over the edge, Thick pink braids falling about his shoulders, watery blue eyes regarding you with confusion.

You can't help but notice the powdery white lines so neat along his desktop.

This is the man that ended an empire.

This man is borderline insane.

"I remember you," he says suddenly, Childishly proud of himself, Gesturing to you frantically with two chemical stained hands, As if you didn't already know who he was talking to.

"You came to my party, with Axel. Has that boy started eating again? I gather he's still feeding that nasty little sex habit of his, but you DO have to keep fuel in the engine. Nutrition and all that."

You don't know whether or not to believe him with regards to that nugget of information about Axel's private life. This man doesn't totally seem aware of where he is, or who he is supposed to be. But then again, living in the streets, one doesn't need a drug habit to face those questions day in, day out.

You can't watch this, can't face the idea of more human self destruction. Your eyes wander back to the eerily coloured liquids lining the selves, hiding among the wild flowers growing through holes in the floorboards.

"Do you like them?" He questions giddily, unaware of the discomfort he's causing you.

"I'm sure you've probably already met Vexen. He's a drug manufacturer, but in his spare time, I managed to convince him to mix me all these pretty coloured mixes. He's a whiz with chemicals. Although I'm not quite sure whether or not that's a compliment."

Your feet are tempted to carry you over, pick their way through the rambling weeds and vines and let you stroke one of the neon coloured bottles. But you anxiously refuse them, already annoyed at them for carrying you here in the first place.

"I'm Marluxia," the pink-haired man finally declares, as though it was a topic that needed clearing up.

"Roxas," you mutter simply, Attention once more magnetised to the coloured liquids.

"That's the one," he cheers, tapping his temple in thought, "You're the brother. The little Strife boy. Yes, Larxene mentioned you. She says you and Axel seem awfully chummy together," he smirks, eyes searching your face for some indicator that her words hold some truth. You figure Larxene must have been the blonde determined to suffocate Axel with her tongue.

"She's Axel's ..."

"On-off girlfriend, wife, antagonist. Whatever. Those two just can't play nice. But like I told her many a time before. She can't expect commitment from a sex fiend," He brushes the explanation away with a wave of his hand, uninterested in reminiscing, suddenly fascinated with why you've decided to pay him a visit.

He steeples his fingers, folds his hands together under his chin and prepares himself for a long and complicated explanation, but what does manage to escape your mouth, has the desired effect on him.

"I'm looking for Demyx".

His eyes widen a fraction, the pupils swallowing up the whites. He looks ridiculously ill, pasty skinned and wide eyed, but he continues on in this position of power, determined to take half of the streets with him should he face his ending in the near future.

"Demyx isn't for sale," he says blandly, all traces of humour and childishness vanishing from his voice at the mention of his prized possession. You're surprised at the speed of your recovery; your mind not willing to dwell on what it is exactly Demyx is sold for.

"I don't want to buy him," you spit, disgusted with how this conversation unfolds, like some inevitable disaster; "I just want to talk with him".

Marluxia tilts his head, as if the movement earns him a better understanding of your request. Like people aren't capable of conversing with the prostitute, like he's already too damaged to ever mingle with humanity again.

Marluxia strokes his chin thoughtfully, All the while running inky eyes over your rapidly shrinking figure.

"As a brother of Cloud, I imagine you and Demyx have some ... Bonds?" he questions, And although you don't understand what his tone insinuates, you nod slightly, figuring it's better to just agree with his man rather than fight him on whatever ideas he's concocted in that pill-abused mind of his.

"Yes sir," you nod glumly.

"Well now, I can't stop Demyx making friends," He says happily, like a mother regarding her child's freedom, "After all, It's not like he has many," A sinister afterthought, but you nod gently nonetheless, disturbed by what this man could do if annoyed or frustrated, set off in any way. A short fuse to a blazing temper.

It's easy to see why he and Xemnas didn't co-operate so well.

Xemnas is rooted to the physical, all he knows is this concrete and neon, the shadows and the horror stories, whereas Marluxia; He seems to spend a lot of his time in wonderland, his eyes vacant and his mind wandering.

How could two polar opposites as such be expected to work together effectively? Maybe this rift was for the better, it pains you to imagine what the city would be like had Xemnas and Marluxia managed some stab at co-operation.

"Larxene?" he sings, loud enough for his voice to be heard throughout the decaying building. He doesn't address you, doesn't bother with small talk, too out of his mind to strike up conversation. He just watches you, a manic grin on his face as footsteps echo from somewhere in the hall.

It seems like an eternity before the blonde head of the lady from the club sticks through the gap.

Her sparkling blue eyes widen upon seeing you standing, a little rigid, among the chaos that is Marluxia's sanctuary. Glossy lips part and struggle to form words, anything productive or creative.

For once she can't conjure up some witty comment with regards to your visit.

"Larxene," Marluxia calls, Not looking up from a glass bottle filled of glowing, neon pink, the liquid swishing and swirling, captivating his attention momentarily.

"Bring this boy up to Demyx".

Larxene simply nods; aware he can't see the motion. A cold steel glance directed your direction insists that you find your feet and escape the insanity of Marluxia's office before it bleeds into your own brain and rapidly depletes your intelligence.

The trip through the halls is silent; Larxene mentally profiles you as you curiously study each of the sealed doors you pass on your way.

"This is it," she mutters suddenly, Stepping aside to reveal another blistered doorway, The paint chipped away, names carved into the rotting wood with biro, although time leaves them illegible.

"Knock. He hates it when people bust in".

And with her advice she disappears again. These corridors are her catwalks and she uses them to their full potential.

You listen to her footsteps fade into the distance, listen to the faint sounds of movement from beyond the doorway, the soft sounds of swearing. You can't bring yourself to knock.

This is what you've been searching for, all this time. Some connection with the little blonde 'girl' you saw weeks ago swimming along the strand without a care in the world. And how her story evolved. This little boy was responsible for a lot of the war that tore through the streets.

Some cheap, modern imitation of Helen of Troy.

Ever since you met Demyx, something had interfered, stopped you from talking. Your encounter in the club had been brief if anything. Just the lingering sensation of his lips on your mouth and his hands on the inside of your thighs.

It's not love, but you make do.

Your knock echoes off the walls of the empty corridor, and all sounds of movement from within suddenly cease.

A cautious response kick-starts your heart. You haven't heard his voice in so long.

"Yeah?"

You don't answer, Can't find the words to pile together, some jumble of information to remind him who you are.

But the words die in your throat.

"Who is it?" he growls, the footsteps slowing in the door. You can imagine him pressing his ear to the wood, listening to you breathing.

How intimate.

"It's Roxas," you murmur weakly. And it takes a moment before there are any signs of recognition from the other side of the doorway.

"Come in," he eventually responds, his voice sounding distant. He's abandoned the sound of your breathing for the view of the chaos below his window.

The door suddenly seems ten tonne heavier, and laying your eyes on him after so long catches the breath in your chest. You find yourself wondering how you mistook him for a girl to begin with.

His hair is styled differently, no longer hanging loose, framing his pretty face, Instead it's spiked up, a severe style drawing attention to the dark rings around his eyes and the sharpness of his features. The sides are shaved tight, a tail of blond strands hanging down his back. The hem of his shirt doesn't reach the waistband of his jeans, a painful expanse of concave stomach and jutting hips on display.

Without the cosmetics slathered across his face, you see the truth in the rumours you had heard about underground fight clubs and hustling. Speckles of shimmering scar tissue, a thin line of stitching running along his jaw.

It takes a superior amount of effort to peel your eyes from him, to settle them on your surroundings. Bare walls, bare floors, a boarded window, with just little gaps of exposure to the world in between the planks. A bag rests in the center of his bed, and in it, he's stuffed an assortment of rainbow coloured clothes and make up. He watches you with his arms folded across your chest.

And suddenly you realise why you came here. Why you put yourself through the torture of seeing something you can never have. You're seeking a confession. An admittance. It won't bring your brother back, but at least you'll know he's aware of the damage he's caused.

At that realisation, It takes every fibre of your being to not lash out, to not make physical some of the pent up rage in your system, rage that he's adding fuel to by simply standing there, oblivious to your motives for being here.

An urge to destroy something beautiful.

"Roxas, what can I do for you?" he asks slowly, measuring the words as if he's not quite sure how to interact with you.

You panic, your brain struggling to create an excuse not too farfetched for your 'off the beaten track' visit.

Looking at Demyx, watching the ocean waves moving through his eyes, "I was on my way to the beach, And I heard you were around. You like the beach, don't you?" you ask, already aware of his opinions of the beach, his obsession with the natural. His face softens slightly at the mention of something so familiar. He misses it. And you know for a fact he hasn't seen a drop of ocean water since Axel's reappearance. He doesn't smile, those jaded features remain stony still, but something in his eyes lightens, as though he appreciates you've remembered something personal about him, other than his amazingly skilled mouth.

"Yeah. I'll go with you," he says softly, expression still hard, but voice gentle. But for some reason, the black and white of his mood complements him perfectly. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets, emphasizing the sharp hips and pale skin. Even measuring against Marluxia's slowly manifesting madness, this boy is clearly ill, boasting anorexia and schizophrenia like some kind of reward.

You're desperate to hear him speak once more, in the more male version of his voice, not the twisted feminine lilt you're used to. His voice isn't deep, but it's still blatantly male.

You mentally kick yourself.

How disastrous you are at judging people, Roxas.

Not everyone wants to be your friend.

"So, why do you like the beach? You struck me as more of a city boy."

He offers a smile this time, a dangerous expression teetering a fine line between pleasant and manic. You hold your breath.

"It's like a past life, You'know? It reminds me of things I did once upon a time. It's weird," he states, not seeming too bothered to explain his thoughts.

You can't help but recall your first encounter with Axel.

_"You've got really blue eyes kid. Reminds me of the beach"._

You can't help but recall how everyone used to tell you, you had your brothers' eyes.

And maybe in a way it is a confession, another elaborate tale of Demyx'.

But it's not good enough. He stole a life. He stole Cloud's life. And you feel about ready to return the favour.

He's almost skeletal.

He's already halfway there.

And you intend to finish the job.

* * *

**Oh man oh man oh man oh man. My neck is freakin' killin' me. This took for agesssssssssssss, But it's the longest chapter yet. High five to anyone who wants it. I'm in the middle of my final exams, and should probably be studyin' for irish now. But sure, What can yah do huh? Plus i had to get my laptop wiped, it was totally effed in the A, but none of the words in my dictionary were still there. So when it was spell-checking 'Zexion', It got 'Lexicon'. That's pretty shweet. Oh and sorry for makin' Marluxia a total space cadet, But Marluxia always struck me as bein' like that pegasus chap from Yu-Gi-Oh. And Ps or whatev. Did anyone hear that song about Axel? Man that is freakin' trippy.**

**Usual diary entry part: Today i are granola out of a cereal box and played Grand Theft Auto all day. Talk about productive. Anywho, It's like, 4 in the mornin', Gotta head off. Goin' Disneyland in like, 28 days or something? YAY!**

**Thanks for readin' and reviewin'! Even if yah don't like, You can tell me i'm a dickhead, or i spell like a dope Which i am totally proud of! Toodle pip! :D**


	27. It's Alright, I Survived, I'm Alive

_**I thought we were a real love relationship. I did. I was very invested in love, but it was just this long long sex thing that could end at any moment because after all, it's just about getting off. Almost all the time, you tell yourself you're loving somebody when you're just using them. This only looks like love.**_

* * *

Demyx walks these streets like he carries the deeds in his pockets. He oozes a dangerous confidence from every pore of his body, and his pretty face acts as nothing more than a magnet for an increasing amount of unwanted attention.

Faint purple tones curl themselves into the velvet black night sky, an indication of morning hanging in the distance. This is the stretch of time before sunrise blares across the city, chasing away the alley shadows and exposing the horrors of the nightlife to the world. This is the window, a warning alarm for each and every decaying carcass posing as part of the population, to carry themselves far from the site of the disaster, and to hide in the cement work. Keep the sinister circus show of the streets another secret from humanity.

Not one pair of hungry eyes can drag themselves the distance of his battered converse to his battered face. Everyone eager to avoid the thunderstorm clapping and crashing in his eyes. A silent frustration with the world he's never bothered to vocalise. But not one of these people recognises him. Not one sees the lost and angry little boy that hid behind the glossy exterior of some street walker, fingerprints dotting his pale skin like the speckles of a Dalmatian. Poppy coloured bruises on a pale canvas.

No one knows his name, without the virgin pure dress clinging to thin hips, highlighting each notch in an exposed spine, straps falling on shoulders slick with sweat.

He's just another stranger when he's without his underwear inside out, pleading and praying with a god that's forgotten him, bound with electrical tape.

Melody was everyone's ideal sex crime victim.

Demyx is just some supporting actor, his name flashing briefly on the cast list of life, spelled horribly wrong. And you know deep down, he's just like anyone, feeding a sensational desire for attention. Strange how you offer up this questionless devotion and he brushes you off as though he were better. As though he didn't need you.

He isn't really Demyx anymore, Melody has taken over, his veins pumping lip gloss heroine, his heart some empty bank account. Demyx is the safe aspect of his personality, a character he reverts back to, someone sane hidden inside an utterly chaotic mindset. He feels safe enough around you to expose the fragile little boy he is, six feet under the thin blonde hair, blood red lips and steel eyes.

His hips don't sway as he stomps along ahead of you. His fists curl at his sides, varnished nails chipped and filthy, buried deep in his palms. Do the sights of the city infuriate him as much as they do you?

"Hey ... there ... do you wanna ... go ... somewhere?"

Those words don't come from Demyx; He's still a few feet ahead of you, gazing backwards with a glinting amusement in his eye, paper thin arms once more folded across his chest.

A young girl stands to your side, her head hanging low, brown curls tumbling around her sickly shoulders. Her clothes are worn, littered with patches and dirt, knees rubbed grey and grass-stained. Her voice is considerably calm, only the slightest tremble, but the streets throw harsh shadows across her eyes, black hollows across pale skin. You find yourself uneasy, unable to decipher her mood by reading her eyes.

It's a skill you developed over the years, dealing with Cloud, the muscles in his face too inexperienced to deal out a smile every once in a while. It became a matter of reading the moods and the thoughts from his eyes.

"It's just that ..." she interrupts, gushing the words as though her explanation to you is enough of a pardon from her past misdeeds. Demyx is smirking, teeth a flashing white in the dim light. So strange to see his usual carefully considered indifference thrown to the wind, suddenly some semblance of expression across his lips. You're immediately struck dumb, mouth flapping like a fish out of water. Panicked blue eyes dart between Demyx and this nervous young lady.

The girl shrugs lamely, a silent attempt at finishing her sentence. Her hands shoved deep in the pockets of white skinny jeans stained with stories of her adventures.

"Oh for fuck sake Olette," Demyx explodes, earning a gasp from both you and the vocally challenged young woman. She turns, quickly on the defensive, trembling hands raised in some imitation of surrender. Her eyes now exposed to the light, wide and glossy, settled on Demyx with an unshakable fear.

He storms over, footsteps echoing, punctuating each movement. His fingers reaching into his pocket. His previous smirk is gone now. Disappeared with the realisation that someone else suffers the same story he has. He thrusts his fist, clasped around his little secret, towards her chest, multi-coloured notes of currency fluttering to the floor, her wide eyes watching them as they fall, reflecting them like white butterflies in her eyes.

You're briefly reminded of the letters at home. Cards of 'deepest apologies' signed by relatives you've long since forgotten.

"Sort this out, Olette. Marluxia won't keep you around if you can't rake in anything," he adds, his vague way of explanation. His desperate attempt at revealing some sort of understanding. His hands reaching for her to tell her it's okay. He doesn't smile, doesn't offer her any physical contact, and refuses to watch her hesitant hands clutch at the stray notes settled on the concrete. But you know, deep down, he just doesn't want to see himself. He's not willing to look at what she is; because that is not much different to the monster he's become. He steps away without another word. And you can't help it, your brain to mouth filter instantly rendered useless by such a strange display of affection.

"Why did you get into it Demyx?"

He reacts to your use of his name as though you've just held a flame to his skin. His body rigid, his eyes darting to you, intimidating you with their ferocity, but you smile and stand your ground, confident he won't kill you. The guilt of two Strifes on one conscience.

"You'know? I'm not really from around here," he answers, suddenly deciding it's more beneficial to play your game than question you every step of the way.

You take a moment to backtrack trying to figure out his sudden change of heart. You don't bother to question him, to enthralled by the idea of a history lesson, a brief look into the life of a disaster, some street pin-up with his lip between his teeth and his hands between his thighs.

He won't turn to you, His stupid feet marching him closer to his fate. He won't face you, face the fact that he's admitting there's a problem, let alone it's origins.

"My mum and dad don't live together. She insisted I stay with her, Mother-child relationship or some shit like that. She was a negotiator for Shinra in its early days, You'know? It was up to her to face the press every day, defend Shinra like she actually gave a damn. She needed a child to prove she was human. I was her fucking 'experiment'".

You nod, lips frozen shut as he exposes his cynical view on humanity. Barely finding love in the relationship he shared with his mother, no wonder he goes searching for that love elsewhere. Demyx is still a little wide-eyed boy, with scruffy hair and dirt-stained knees, on a treasure hunt. And he still goes about his searching with a smile on his face, even though he learned years ago that there was no prize, there was no love to be found. No tooth fairy. No Easter bunny. No daddy.

But he likes to make-believe.

"I used to play 'round with her shit when she was out. Make-up, clothes," he gestures vaguely to his face, Eyes still searching the darkness but not meeting yours, "It takes years of practice to cover up the scars I've collected."

It saddens you to see a strong boy reduced to this. He's lonely, he's desperate, he's terrified, but he's just relieved to feel.

"Wait, if your mother was a Shinra negotiator, how'd you get tangled up in all this?" you ask, briefly recalling Shinra's policies, its reluctance to hire members of the street population to work as intelligence for the company, preferring instead to use them as mindless muscle. Expendable. If Demyx' mother had history of a background in the slums, that Shinra bastard would have refused her application.

"Don't you get it Roxy? I ran away. I came down here looking for my life again," but he never finishes the statement, the final few words never managing to fall from his mouth. _'And she never came looking for me'_. The sad truth of the relationship he shared with his mother. A relationship easily comparable to the ice thin, ice cold relationship between you and your father.

Related by blood, not by choice.

His shoulders are still frozen stiff, a practical grinding of bone on bone with each slight movement he makes. The fluidity of his usual movement withering away under such personal questioning.

This boy is water, constantly moving, impatient, easily able to avoid the obstacles life throws his way. But now he is frozen, cold and easily broken. Fragile.

The questions ebb and flow in your mind, pushing against the inside of your lips. You've both come from similar backgrounds. Single parents so deeply devoted to a career, their own children became less of a priority. You've both been written from the same words, Characters sketched from the same materials, and yet somewhere, your paths divided. Where did it all go wrong? And for who? Which one of you is really better off?

"You left because of your mother?" your voice pumped full of venom and frustration, enough for the words to seep under his skin. He turns to glance over his shoulder, turmoiled eyes trailing over you, a rueful laugh escapes his lips, but those impatient feet keep wandering.

"Isn't that why you're here handsome?" he purrs, his smile audible in his voice. His eyes gleaming with sinister shades, "Daddy issues?"

It takes moments for his words to offer full effect, but they don't set red ablaze behind your eyes like you had expected. You had seen these words, Etched out before your eyes before he had even figured to say them, because this boy is water, a master at avoidance. Demyx placed under scrutiny, and suddenly he mentions your father to throw you off his scent. You're not angry, upset, hard-reaching to feel remotely frustrated. A heavy feeling in your heart, like this is the end of a story where the light side finally find themselves swallowed by darkness. Regret? You don't regret your actions, past present or future. This is pity. Your pity for Demyx. The boy who wanted to hunt down his life, to find something worth keeping.

But the world left him behind.

And he still bares his grudge.

"Why'd you run?" your voice wavers slightly, an action he most definitely acknowledges, trained to read a person's every movement, every mood. He only hesitates momentarily, spitting out words that sound rehearsed. He's probably counted down the years for someone to pose that question, for someone to care why he did what he did.

"Did you ever just wanna mess everything up so bad, the only place you could go is up? Knock yourself down and then build yourself up to something better. I do it every morning. And every night is my downfall."

He turns to face you now, blue eyes solid steel. His mouth pressed in a grim line. And as he practices his next words over and over in his scribbled mind, you count his ribs through his shirt.

"Every night someone cracks me open, sucks me dry. Ruins everything I've been struggling for. Axel's a very effective arsenal".

He turns to continue on, the dark streak of the ocean painted across the horizon. Dim neon flickers on the waves, some beacon drawing him closer.

Axel? What has Axel got to do with this? Axel with that faux pride and those fizzling eyes, smiling to advertise his innocence, but like a parasite, eating away and destroying what he can behind the false face. Demyx plucks the question from your mind as though it was written along your wrists.

"Axel did everything in his power to keep me around. Every night he'd come up with something new to make me stay. Something else to force me into tears. It's his fault I can't get out of here. He won't give me a chance to build myself back up."

His words seem a little frantic now, running a little close to together. His breaths shorter, his fists curled tighter, a white knuckle grip on his sanity. He's not letting go just yet. The bitter laughter spilling from his dangerous smile is enough to suggest otherwise. His neglect for his own safety. Finally resorting to mentioning a street legend, a story without its final chapter.

His story.

"You'know Axel was sent to kill me? He was so good at playing heartless; I figured it'd be an easy hit for him. Some fucking sick double agent. But he couldn't do it. He pressed that barrel to the back of my throat and told me he couldn't do it. He needed a brother. He didn't kill me and I fucking hate him for it".

There are visible tremors dancing along his spine, His skin tight and goose-pimpled, littered with scars from a story Axel wouldn't save him from. Demyx may have been water, but there was something about Axel that made him difficult to quench.

His own form of cancer.

You don't question, you don't understand his mind, his wrongly placed grudges, and his misguided revenge. He had finally confided in you, bothered to share information regarding his encounters with Axel, although Axel was willing enough to supply it himself. He may have mentioned his assassination, but has so far failed to mention why those orders were placed.

He's not interested in having you hate him.

By the time you can taste the salt of the ocean on your tongue; darkness has crept in, choking the blue shards of sky and leaving you to memory. Only distant neon and voices reassure you. Demyx abandons his trainers by the pavement, stepping into the cigarette-laden sand, a desperate cross between a sigh and a moan escaping from his lips, a sinful sound, setting that scarlet blush once more across the bridge of your nose. He is drawn to the ocean, the black ink of the waves lapping at the sand and calling him closer.

This is his salvation among a schedule saturated in sin.

This is his oasis among the concrete.

Even the sea is silent tonight, as if it too senses the awkwardness, the events to come. As if it is already aware that tonight it will bare witness to the death of the little water nymph. It's cursing you with a lipless mouth, words with no definition, just the faint sound of angry waves off in the distance. Demyx remains blissfully unaware.

"You said you come here, 'Cause it reminds you of the past. Of 'once upon a time'. What happened here Demyx?"

You test your theory, Desperate to know if his pilgrimages here have been desperate attempts to repent for his sin. Is this him reaching out to Cloud? His suffering of the harsh ocean waves throughout the seasons. Does he suffer for Cloud's sake? An act of apology? Or were these just the first glimpses of the same insanity raging through his bloodstream right now.

"I did some of my best 'business transactions' here," he grins slyly, his lack of respect for his own dignity nagging at the inside of your mind.

"I'm serious," you all but snarl, desperate to decipher what races through his head at times like these. Is Melody a constantly conscious form inside that maze of a mind, or is Demyx retaining complete control for the moment.

"I knew this boy once. He coulda had the world. But he chose this," he starts, his voice low, almost saddened. His words weighed down by the weight of his guilt. Hollow eyes search the horizon for where inky waters meet the black canvas of the sky.

The stars don't shine down here, because they walk the streets as drug dealers and prostitutes. These people are golden in their own ways.

"The way the water looks in the morning, just murky, and bottomless, a little depressing to dwell on. The ocean is something infinite right? But this guy, He still managed to fit it all in his eyes.".

He can't tear his gaze from the black scene painted before him, only the flecks of neon reflected in the water throwing shadows and highlights across the plains of his face. You stand closer now, weak to hear someone speak so highly of your brother. Your knuckles brush his, his skin ice cold. Your breath catches in your throat with the contact, but history has him dazed, your attempts at connection lost to him.

"I hate feeling small. I felt so worthless to my mother. I came down here, like some charity case for punishment. When you're in a gang, you fight for your voice to be heard," his words disappear; evaporate into the atmosphere, his defeat hanging in the air. He can't find a way to continue without somehow mentioning his own records, the fairytales of his past he'd rather let lie.

"I've heard this bedtime story before, Demyx. I know how it ends. Just tell me why."

You grit your teeth and speak in calm, carefully measured words. That smile beams across his features once more, his eyes dart to glance towards you before resting on the endless nothingness, visions of obstacles he's overcome painted behind his eyelids. The touch of his fingertips ghosts across the palm of your hand. A pathetic offering of his respect.

He knows what you're here to do.

He's not prepared to protest.

"Who told you?" he asks, Voice light and airy, there's nothing sinister behind his words, He's already fully aware of whom verbally bled his story like some gossip chain. He doesn't turn to try and decipher the answers from your eyes, or your lips. His focus rooted to the darkness, a hint of fear choking the electric blue.

"Axel," you say dryly, and while you once held sympathy for Axel, his loss, the one thing you had in common. Each and every day one of these people, someone who could categorise themselves as his victim, crawls from the woodwork, spewing more stories to reveal the sadistic nature of his personality.

Demyx does well to keep his body relaxed. Delicate hands hanging limp, not a fold or crease of frustration across his pale skin. He simply nods, closing his eyes momentarily, to gain his bearings on the new situation.

"He's always been such a big mouth," Demyx manages to smile, watery and weak, eyes distant and unfocused, "Right back when I first met him. Whatever people tell you, Rox, He's a good guy. He lost himself pretty bad a while ago, like his name just dropped off the radar, but he's tryin', you gotta give him that.".

You can't understand his reasoning, where he's digging these words from. Axel had handed this boy salvation, a chance to escape, an offer Demyx had no interest in. Had he not mentioned 'hate' only moments ago? Or are these a desperate man's last attempts at bettering himself, offering his forgiveness with a grudge.

"If he was tryin', he'd stop workin' as Xemnas' fuckin' reaper," you snarl, angered uncharacteristically by the whole situation.

Demyx turns to watch you now, to watch his own hatred burn in your bloodshot eyes. His inner child has regained control, staring out at you from gaping, empty eyes. Even the storm warnings had been wrong, he's not overwhelmed with rage, he's filled with resignation. He studies you now like he's never met you before and maybe he hasn't. Maybe that searching look in his eyes is looking for the old you, the timid little Roxas, the one not tainted by his surroundings. All he can find is this paint covered canvas, originally white, pure and untouched by the chaos. But when your anxious feet led you into Cloud's world, different emotions were gradually painted across the white. Red black and blue, green and yellow. Frustration, depression and hopelessness, envy and confusion.

"He let me go, Didn't he?" his voice is quite now, a fear that his words disturb the ocean, nature collecting your conversation and noting the details, like watching some soap opera.

He's standing close enough you can smell other people off his breath, faint traces of smoke and soap. To see his hopelessness on display, his surrender advertised for you. To see the humanity in his expression, you can't help but to reach for him and suck the sorrows from behind his lips.

It's not a kiss.

A kiss would suggest something soft, gentle emotions running behind it. A kiss would suggest love.

This is not love, this is convenience.

It's all teeth and blood, bruising and pleading, his fingernails embedded in the skin of your cheeks. He's whimpering and wet, and this is everything you could have hoped for, murderous intent fading away to a dull thumping in the back of your mind. This is him, suffocating any accusations you care to throw his way, and this is you, a half-assed attempt to stop him breathing.

When he pulls away, you count the cuts across his bruised lips; count the conflicting emotions turning in his eyes. He's still so close, fingertips trailing down your cheeks to hang uselessly at his sides. His eyes continue their searching, darting from your lips to your eyes, and you watch him squirm, struggling to stand so close to you.

Eventually he lets out a bitter laugh, a smile on his lips but his eyes ready to cry a river.

"You're better than him you know," he breathes the words between your lips, closely monitoring your expression the entire time. Better than Axel. His subtle compliments to convince you not to kill him, not to give in to your own darkness.

"You wouldn't kill, Rox and you know how to keep a secret," he says seriously, as though he's reading an accurate file, filled with information regarding the various aspects of your personality. What you can't see is the hopeless uncertainty written in your own eyes.

He smirks, regaining some of his normal cheek.

"You kiss like you mean it Roxy. Valuable job skill. Good boy".

You can still taste the tangy blood on your lips; in the faint light you can see the black smudges across his own.

"Axel could never do that. He couldn't even touch me without thinking about Larxene. Like he actually cared," envy creeps into his tone, his silent grudge against Larxene for preventing him getting what he had wanted. But now he's out for your blood, and Axel's run hiding into the world.

But then again, maybe he did care? Maybe Axel's unwillingness to indulge in an offer like Demyx was an accurate portrayal of his feelings regarding his on-off fuck buddy. Maybe Axel's already felt a touch of love, And he just can't admit to have felt such a weakness. Instead, he and Larxene chase each other in violent circles, using and abusing each others thrust just to return and bitch each other out for it. It's not how you and Namine worked.

But you and Namine didn't work.

"Why don't we go for a swim? Off the pier. It's not that cold, is it?" you wonder aloud, revelling in the excitement burning in your blonde companions eyes. This boy who resorts to sex and violence to find some stimulus in life, and yet water has the same effect. He stares hungrily out at the black waves, mesmerized, feet already carrying him to the pier, trembling fingertips fumbling with the button of his jeans, stumbling to kick his shoes off.

You follow obediently, observing how willing he is to show vulnerability, dumping his clothes in a tell-tale trail. He stands at the edge of the pier, staring into the bottomless waters below. His jeans lie rolled in a ball, discarded along his path. He stands in his shirt and a pair of lacy underwear, stained with blood and piss. The marks of his career choice. His unfortunate life decision.

Although the breeze is biting tonight, sharp enough to cut skin, Demyx doesn't tremble, entranced by the ebb and flow of the small waves. A dark shadow against a black backdrop.

_I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean._

He could have single-handedly destroyed the corrupt world of the city streets; tainted himself with all that blood just to ensure the population never fell into such an endless depression once again. And yet regardless of his will-power, the silent strength beneath weak fists, not even Demyx could take on the ocean. Just another grudge he holds dear to his heart.

Your footsteps echo along the hollow wooden pier, mimicking the heartbeat pumping in your throat. Demyx only turns when he feels your body heat, close enough to touch, but mentally to far to reach out. His blue eyes return to searching your face. Perhaps looking for forgiveness? But finding nothing.

This is tragic; this is a waste of a potentially interesting life.

You brush your lips against his just once more, offering a momentary distraction from the barrel of Xigbar's gun pressed sharply between his ribs. The gun you recovered from the murder scene moments before returning to Kairi.

A gun covered in Demyx' own fingerprints. An old acquaintance of his. Something warm and familiar.

The sleeve of your jacket is pulled down over your own fingers, terrified of leaving any trace of you on this weapon of choice. This is revenge. This is you avenging anyone who has ever suffered a wrong by this young man's hands.

This is for Cloud.

This is for Xigbar, This is for Axel, for Saix, for Xemnas, Larxene and Marluxia. This is for anyone who's willing to lay claim.

And this is yours.

This is your revenge for the turmoiled feelings he conjures up in your chest. This is for the hybrid of love and hate he's bred in your heart over time. This is all for the knowing grin across his lips as he presses himself against the deadly end of the gun.

This is for you.

"You're better than him Roxas Strife. You shouldn't do this," he threatens, His voice low, the deadly dangerous aspects of his character creeping back in. The same equal mix of Demyx and Melody that savagely murdered Xigbar. You can see it grow in his eyes, a flash of red, and a change of heart. The chilling glare is enough to stop your heart or set it racing.

"Does this all look familiar Demyx?" you ask, struggling to keep your voice from cracking, Attempting to keep your hand from shaking, the vibrations strong against his ribcage.

He simply smiles, revealing a little too many teeth.

"I prefer to be standing on the other end of the barrel, You'know? I love to see people on their knees, beggin' me for mercy. Just like your brother Roxas. The all-powerful Cloud Strife brought to his knees by the run-away little boy slut. He had no respect for me. But in those last few seconds, He woulda given me the world."

You shake your head and squeeze your eyes shut tight. One hand rising to furiously rub your temple, a monotonous pumping banging at the inside of your skull. Quench your rage and manage to drag whatever you want out of him before you explode his chest cavity.

"He tried to make me look like an idiot in front of Xemnas, and Saix. Saix was so disappointed in me. I hated that feeling. So I killed it at the source. No point trying to deal with it when it's not my fault in the first place."

He keeps talking to disrupt your frantic thinking, he's probably well-versed in the act of avoiding a gun shot wound, although the needle punctures along his arms suggest he needs a little more experience.

"Shut up Demyx. Just shut up for a second," you hiss, eyes frantic and wild, enough to make him jump and freeze, Realising he has nowhere to go, perched on the edge of the pier facing the icy waters below. There's only so much he can endure.

"You're not like him," he repeats once more, voice cracking with desperation this time, His own words a little rushed and panicked. His last attempts at convincing you to let him go.

You glance up from your filthy converse, hand falling to your side, headache finally subsiding, determination over-riding the agony. And you smile, sinister and ugly, an expression that pulls too many unused muscles in your face at angles you never which to re-enact.

"You're right Demyx. I'm not," his expression softens a little, eyes wider, glossy and blue, "I'm won't let you get away".

Realisation hits him like the sound of a gunshot, speckles of blood across his features. His expression twisted ugly with pain, with panic. You both glance down at the same time.

One of his hands curled around the barrel of the gun, the cold steel setting his stinging nerve endings at rest. The other hand covers the growing dark stain spreading across his chest. His eyes glare up to meet your own, his mouth open in surprise, shock that a Strife had the ability to bring down this strange little prostitute. The dysfunctional offspring of Shinra.

His knees buckle, and you step back.

_No matter how much you think you love somebody, you'll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close._

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, blocking out the world, listening to the dull thud as the gun connects with the rotten wood beneath you. Block out the image of an all powerful creature finally meeting its end. A boy who had played through is life as the wind, breezing in and out, something beautiful with a destructive force behind it. You could not see it, the effects he left in his wake all that remained, he was difficult to catch, impossible to find.

In a last attempt at escape, he once more turns to the ocean, a puddle of black liquid gathering around him, seeping through the cracks in the wood, swallowed by the hungry waters below. His eyes clouded over, his better judgement thrown to the wolves. He jumps, a barely audible splash. Not enough of him remaining to disturb the surface of the water by much.

You swallow thickly, brushing your wrist along the corner of your eye, confused by the moisture found there. A combination of blood and something else. Axel should be here, He needs to see this. Not the death, not the body. He needs to see you. Burning acid tears spilling down your cheeks, a feeling to foreign your head automatically panics.

"I'm crying, Axel," you say simply, striding towards the edge, gazing into the dark marble waters below.

This scene seems familiar. Your first very encounter with Demyx. His clothes scattered about the pier in haphazard bundles, the sound of his splashing and laughing reaching you from below the wooden structure. Glancing down at him in a moment of vulnerability. The setting is identical, although the players have changed considerably throughout the course of the story.

His body floats on top of the waves, blonde hair curling and brushing against his cheeks, following the subtle movements of the water. Glassy eyes gazing back at you. Looking but not seeing. Lips parted a silent scream for the rest of eternity. Pale, spindly limbs, clothes soaked through, hugging the protruding bones lovingly. A violent explosion of reddish-pink across his chest, the colours diluted by the water.

Your breath hitches, because now you're him. You're Axel, You're Xigbar. Xemnas and Saix. Anyone who's ever killed and tried to get away with it.

You're the stereotypical product of this corrupt, darkened city. A mix of neon and alcohol flowing through your veins, eyes, reinforced steel. Skin like cement and a smile as a brittle as your bones. But it's not who you are. This isn't you. This isn't what you want. You're not going to be trapped down here.

The shadows don't move, Not even a breeze stirs the rubbish along the beach. Not a witness. No one to reduce you to your knees. This is your chance, your opportunity. The kind of selfish thing that shows itself once in a lifetime and you snatch at it.

One more glance at the body of the catalyst, the selfish little boy who started this whole story rolling. Close to death of his own will. His diet of liquor and dick.

You turn to walk away. But your feet carry you faster than you ever would have figured possible. You run, blazing through the streets and leaving the hollow stories and the empty relationships behind. A whispered goodbye to Axel, an apology for not being there, begging for forgiveness. You've done what he couldn't do.

You run until your heart hammers and your veins pump battery acid.

This is not what you want.

You'll keep looking. The lights of the Shinra buildings blinking and twinkling like stars, Way off in the distance, dotted along the horizons. Find something that makes you smile. Find something that makes you feel. You don't need this world lost little boy. And they don't need you.

Tomorrow this will be documented as a small paragraph in illegible font gracing the fifth page of a newspaper.

No one will remember Demyx, and no one will miss you.

No one would miss you, and you fight to convince yourself Axel is included in that.

Keep going, the suspicious glances of passing shadows bouncing off you. Repelled by your sheer determination.

Don't you understand what you've done? Run Roxas, Run.

* * *

**Hola hola. I always ruin a serious mood by talking ... typing ... Man i'm nearly done my exams, Wahey, Just one left, Outta ten! This woulda been done sooner if i wasn't pretending to study and if i wasn't overly drunk last night!**

**Okaaaaaaaaaaaaay, So Rox has bumped off Demyx. Things came almost full circle, 'Cause they're not done yet. Tune in next week to find out what Saix did to Axel, And who Roxas gets his help off!**

**Big high-five to Kimitala, Who actually guessed correctly where this was originally goin'. Roxas was gonna drown Demyx, But i figured why not get a little more revenge for other people, And shoot him with the same gun he shot Xigbar with. And Also high-five to the Raze-meister who guessed Dem was gonna die. Alot of people are sayin' Axel's next ... Dun Dun DUN! Haha**

**Don't own Chuck P. Or Jesse McCartney. Did reference them though!**

**Sorry for this average-ness, And bad grammer and stuff. I type all these out on MySpace blogs! Haha! Toodle-pip!  
**


	28. Hide Beneath The Physical

**i don't wanna be the boy who's always on his own. i wanna wake you up, so i'll stay here 'til dawn.**

* * *

These are the pathways between heaven and hell.

The empty highways linking the dark to the light, the slums to civilisation. The chalky streetlights glimmer and glint in the distance, dotted along the horizon, but that sparkling glitter does not reach this world in between. The roads are abandoned, the sound of your lonely footsteps echoing across the forgotten tarmac. You stop and you start, coaxing your feet to pause, give your mind a chance to catch up. How many times you stop and debate whether this lonely stretch of shadow is where you belong.

The forgotten world in between where the not-so-innocent prefers to make their home.

The hours seem to stretch to days, although you have yet to see the blue fingers of daylight steal the night sky. Occasionally the flicker of headlights pulls you from your inner musings, the roaring of an engine eager to place this black emptiness behind it. No one seems to notice you, trailing through the darkness, searching for reason. You're beyond rescue at this point. The reluctant people travelling through this void know that. They look at you with pitiful glances, shake their heads and carry on.

No one is interested in self-disaster.

These black canvas fields surrounding you offer nothing but a place to project your memories. Somewhere to organise your thoughts, splice your mental pictures together in a way that portrays you as the victim.

You almost manage to convince yourself Demyx pulled the trigger.

You were just the unfortunate witness. You like to look on yourself as a healer, Demyx' death providing the solution to a lot of problems. Just an open wound on the already tarnished face of street society.

Your various trains of thoughts continue to lead you in circles, abandoning you at the same place. And although you've left him behind, your mind hesitates to erase memories of Axel.

Your make-shift best friend.

The closest thing to an enemy.

You hold on to his words like a greedy child, clasping his promise in grubby, blood stained fingers. His strange devotion, his promise to see you again. His brotherly protection of you. How easily he stepped into Cloud's role, lacking practice and lacking a script. You can't say you miss him, you've never had him. But you do feel. Your gut wrenched in tight knots at the thought of his reaction. That flash of venom tearing through his eyes as he realises you too have deserted him to his chaotic downward spirals.

He's not happy for you, but it's the first word that springs to mind.

The yellow beam of headlamps cuts through the darkness like a knife. The growl of a resisting engine as it gradually pulls to a stop alongside you. It's aggravated snarling violently tears you from your thoughts, but you keep damp eyes focused on the tarmac.

This is your yellow-brick road.

Your feet continue their marching, reluctant to stop for fear of you changing your mind given a chance to think. You don't want to go back, but people always lean towards the familiar.

The engine continues to grunt and snarl, some wild animal trapped beneath the hood. Heat radiates from the mud-coated jeep, and you revel in that comfort, squeezing your eyes shut briefly, before a gruff voice interrupts your vulnerable moment.

"Hey, kid, you wanna go somewhere or are you happy runnin' around these goddamn nowhere roads at all hours of the night?"

It's not really a question, more of a forceful suggestion, and the potential of the dangers lurking in this mans back seat are enough to pause your persistent feet. You swallow hard, an audible gulp, and turn to watch this man. Assess what he wants from you. Murdering the prostitute does not give you permission to step into his glittery red shoes.

Your life carries on.

You drag hazy eyes slowly up the bodywork of this run down old truck, its exterior as battered as its operator. This man looks like the roads are all he knows, bruised knuckles and coarse fingers wrapped tightly around the wheel, dark eyes measuring you up for a reaction. Thick grey smoke coils around his features, a cigarette clenched tightly between slightly yellowed teeth. But you know the streets, know how to read a persons' eyes, and this man's hard gaze holds no killer intent, an indication of a heart possibly a little too big beating in his chest.

You stutter and stumble over stories and excuses. You haven't spoken a word to anyone since you pulled the trigger, your ultimate fear now that this stranger can read your lies from the simple sentences you spew. Your throat is raw, repetitive swallowing, as if that were a cure for tears.

You weren't weak.

You were just caught off guard.

This man rolls his eyes, quickly losing both patience and interest with your ridiculous babbling, just moving your mouth to convince him you're still alive. He leans across the passenger seat, slamming a hand down on the handle before violently shoving the door open, barely missing you, although at this point, you figure the least karma owes you is a smack of a door. You gingerly haul yourself into the seat, your small body swallowed whole by this metal monstrosity. Your chauffeur for this evening tugs a crushed cardboard box from his back pocket, tapping out another cancer stick before lighting it from the glowing remains of the one already perched between his lips. He takes a deep breath, both of you absorbed in watching the disturbance it causes the thick veils of smoke gathering in the enclosed compartment. Tip-toe around confessions.

"Where you from kid, hangin' round in betwixt and between, lost are yah?" his voice is harsh for want of sleep, his words slurred and lazy, lips still clutching the cigarette. You don't respond, reluctant to inform this stranger of your less than pleasant roots, your rapidly wilting family tree. You fold your hands timidly on your knees, as though the patchy blood stains are still visible, as if they are a perfect display, a representation of your life. A reason for him to reject you and abandon you to these desolate highways once more. He coughs, oblivious to your inner musings, fiercely forcing palms into purple-rimmed eyes, an attempt to cling to consciousness.

"Then tell me where you're goin' kid, I failed the fuckin' mind-readin' course".

His words are sharp, cutting, although they hold no bad intentions. You allow his lack of people skills slide, aware it's nothing compared to the dark smudges you have on your own record. This is your decision, whatever answer you offer now, decides the rest of your life. You can ask him for a lift back to your own private hell, the city that never sleeps, and the city that never lives. He can bring you back to the neon and concrete, plant you back in your home, with your father screaming his rage upon discovering your sins. Or, you can simply ask he return you to your home among civilisation, never having to admit your background. You can carry on with a new life and a new name. Make friends that never give you reason for violence. Friends who never know where your hands have been, where your mind wanders, or where your heart lies. Start again with a clean slate. Leave all this behind.

"Back to the city," you mumble quietly, nodding through the windshield at the blinking lights of the Shinra Empire, glowing faint in the distance. A sly smile creeps its way across the drivers face. Maybe he can read through your lies. A man practised in the art of psychological warfare.

He is well aware of what direction you were marching from before he pulled over.

It's written all over your face street kid.

You don't belong anywhere else.

But he's willing to offer you a second chance.

He slams his foot on the accelerator, hunched with focus in his seat, an abandoned seat belt hanging limp by his side. You squeeze your eyes shut tight as the growl of the engine tears through the shadowed roadways and fields.

Click your heels three times, Dorothy, you're going home.

"Now, where're yah comin' from?" he pries again, effectively shattering an increasingly awkward silence. Your heated skin is pressed against the passenger window, eyes wide; hungry for the sights of normality you expect to see. You open your mouth, simply closing it again, unable to form a coherent lie. You catch sight of yourself in the wing mirror; it's enough to halt your train of thought.

You look devastated, Roxas.

Like the battles in your mind took place across the plains of your face.

Frosted blue eyes gaze back at you, wide and dark-rimmed, lost and lonely. You look more and more like Cloud each and every day. Blonde hair sticks to your forehead, your jaw line, pasted to your cheeks, a clever disguise of 'drowned puppy'. This strange man is having none of it. He questions you like it's in his job description.

"Kid, don't think this is the first time this has happened. I ain't some goddamn charity, but I know when someone's in trouble. You look like you got all the usual symptoms".

He doesn't bother to glance your way, to meet your eyes. You used to take pride in your practised skill, an ability to read someone's feelings by observing the colours in their eyes. This man doesn't need those colours to see what's pounding away in your head. He knows where you're coming from. He's not looking for an answer; he's looking for a confirmation.

"I'm coming from the slums."

A simple answer, no need to elaborate, but this man is not easily pleased. He's too difficult to let you wallow in your own thoughts, his rough voice intruding each and every time you retreat into yourself.

"What's the name, kid?" his eyes still rooted to the endless road ahead of him, the city lights still far in the distance.

"Roxas," you mutter weakly, before realising he'll hardly be soothed with such a brief response. "Roxas Strife".

With the mention of your family name, he manages to peel exhausted eyes from the road to take you in fully, quickly scanning your features before glancing back towards the road, carefully tasting the words in his mouth, enjoying the anxiety displayed on your face.

"As in, relative to one Mr. Cloud Strife?" he questions, a sly smirk once more making its home across his features. An expression that sits alarmingly well with the creases and crinkles in his prematurely aged face.

You sigh loud enough for him to once more steal a glance at you, one golden eyebrow raised expectantly. You once more internally batter yourself for opening your mouth before someone so observant.

"Don't tell me you've got somethin' to do with my brother too?" you ask, voice husky with lethargy.

It's not a question, it's a request.

Your head aches from hearing the stories related to your brother. How even in death he was the more popular. People just living their lives through you as a way to be closer to your victim brother. As much as you hate to admit, something you had managed to deny all along, Cloud still maintained control over your life, even in his death. His own life story dictated the friends you could make, the enemies you would adopt.

You were interchangeable characters in the same scene.

You abandoned the streets to escape it all. You were excited to start your new life, not necessarily as 'Roxas strife' but certainly not as 'Cloud Strife's little brother'.

"A little hostile, punk, don't'cha think? I saw his story on the news; I just remember it 'cause those bastards down with the Shinra elite seemed so interested in the case. That in itself was suspicious."

You nod slowly, just relieved to hear Cloud's ghost will have little opportunity to haunt you in your new life.

"What's your name?" you ask quietly, still intimidated to press such personal matters with this strange man. He seems to parade a very short fuse, a temper easily comparable to Saix's black and white moods.

"Cid. but considerin' I just saved your wandering little punk-ass, you can call me 'lord'".

Silence once more reigns solid, you quickly making a list in your mind of the things you've been forced to leave behind. Once more Axel's name crawls its way to the top of your list.

It's not love, but it's the first word that comes to mind.

Cid too seems a little lost in thought, fingers tapping idly on the rotting rubber of the steering wheel. His lips move soundlessly, as though rehearsing a speech, you don't dwell, you don't stare. You don't do anything to attract this man's attention for longer than necessary.

"Was your brother mixed up in all this shit they broadcast over the news channels twenty four seven?"

You pause to wonder. Could you really consider him a bad guy? He may have been responsible for a lot of hassle in your own life, but was he not someone else's salvation? You've never stopped to think, to compile a list of the pros and cons associated with your brother. Your judgements lay solely in how he affected your life, but lately you've find your opinions easing the opposite direction.

You've encountered his 'company', the people who knew him in the run up to his ending. They all came with very high opinions of your brother, something you take into account now.

Cloud's already done all the work; it's just a matter of how you portray him.

"Cloud was just ... mixed up," you offer simply, not willing to commit to either side of your brothers personality. Cid nods slightly in understanding, well aware you're a little concerned with tarnishing your brother's reputation.

Let the people make up their own minds.

You're only one voice.

"Why was his story so ... emphasised? No one came to talk to me or our ... father," your voice gradually dissolves with the unease of referring to that alcohol obsessed monster hiding away in his dark hole of the street life.

Cid glances at you briefly, eyes flicking your direction before once more settling on the road. He takes a moment to mentally prepare a response to your question, and although you already have your ideas, you're not looking for answers, you're looking for confirmation.

"None of it was based on fact, just goddamn Shinra speculation. You'know, back in the day, Shinra had to fight for a bitta power, that bastard and his pansy-ass kid decided they'd take on the slums as a 'pet project'. And suddenly Shinra are everyone's best friend. Never trusted those fuckers. Soon as they had control over everything, the slums were abandoned, the 'Shinra elite' meant to solve all that shit started doin' private work for the cities snobbed-up super spenders."

He glances over, to ensure you're paying attention and you nod back, absorbing each word like it's a miracle cure. And maybe it is, something to finally ease your conscience, although with the mention of the Shinra elite, you can't help your mind wandering to thoughts of Axel's brother. How he endured the exact same situation you find yourself in. someone stole him form the roadside and placed him in a better life.

Who was his salvation?

You owe your life to cid.

"All of a sudden this Cloud Strife kid is killed, and someone with pullin' power in the Shinra ranks has the team look a little closer at the case. It's all fuckin' shifty if you ask me. Not his death, just that, out of the many, his was focused on. Media had a field day runnin' through all sorts of bullshit shit stories and theories. Anything to make Shinra look bad. Even rumours that he was a Shinra 'imself."

Cid rants, his voice growing louder as his enthusiasm regarding his hatred for the Shinra empire increases. You've only seen a few of the news broadcasts, the propaganda and the persistence that this Shinra party were devoted to improvement. Once again the slums kicked to the kerb as people gradually forgot the war contained within. You weren't aware your brother's death had been so publicised, but of course, Cid managed to paint a pretty bleak picture for you.

It wasn't cloud's death that shook the masses; it was his potential relation to the Shinra Empire that had the public captivated, as if Shinra had pulled off some elaborate murder, as though Cloud played some suave spy placed among the slum ranks for observation proposes. How easily people bore with the ordinary.

You must never ever be ordinary.

You consider Cid's tall tale, aware that he's sticking with it simply because it shows the Shinra empire in a negative light, and although you're aware you too should hold some sort of grudge against the company that promised you the world, but stole it away, you can't seem to find it anywhere in you to care. You'd never admit to Cid that Cloud's death wasn't as glamorous as the media portrayed.

Murdered in cold blood by a jealous prostitute.

Hardly something any human would delight to brag about.

And you understand now what Cid had meant in reference to 'pulling power' among the ranks.

It had taken one person to change to course of an empires progress. And while down in the slum streets of hell, Axel maintained a detached control over multiple situations, up here, in the bright light cityscape of heaven, Reno too has found his own grasp on life. It was he who had influenced the Shinra elite to take a closer look at the case, at request of none other than his distraught little brother, who obviously hadn't dwelled on the consequences of such an action. Reno's poking and prodding in cloud's death had in turn unveiled his little brothers' profession. And all too suddenly, Shinra lost interest in the case, just another nameless face killed off without cause in a city riddled with death and drugs.

It's easy now to see the parallels between Reno and Axel.

"He wasn't a Shinra. He just had the right contacts."

You say it with a sigh of defeat, making every effort to avoid the stony gaze Cid sends your direction.

"He didn't have the right contacts kid, he's dead. And you're here now. So tell me, who've you got up here to take care of you?" he asks, nodding towards the city lights drawing closer and closer, your eyes growing wider and wider. You silently consider his question, aware that right now, you're hopelessly alone, and independence is not a state you would like to find yourself in at this moment in time. You need some guidance. You need someone to prove they know what they're doing.

You need someone who has won at this 'life' game.

You shake your head slightly, a slow movement, weary of catching the older man's attentions, quite aware it's an answer to his question in the first place. You'll admit to being weak, to being lonely. But you do not want to advertise your issues to the world.

While your brother's story was a ten-minute 'feature-length' affair across new bulletins, you'd prefer to keep your own downfall private.

Cid's already watching you, sees the despair in your eyes, the anxiety written across your skin. He'll never admit to it, but he's a little sympathetic towards your situation. He sighs, fighting his internal revelation, capturing your attention once more as he starts off, a little hesitantly, reluctant to make his suggestions.

"I know this guy, might be able to help you. He's a frostbitten asshole, but I figure he owes me one."

You don't miss the fond smile across his face, something relative to pride glimmering in his dark eyes. He had said you weren't his first rescue.

Maybe this is your opportunity to meet someone who managed to play the game a little better than you did.

* * *

Cid's truck grinds to a halt around the back of a tall apartment block. Lights flicker and flare in several windows, and you find yourself pausing to hear the gunshots, the cries for help that have become your lullaby over the years. Cid's already rounded a corner before you can drag your eyes from the settled city scene towering above you.

The main doors are situated on a busy junction, the flicker of traffic lights and the gentle laughter of people returning from high-class bars and clubs. You absorb all this with a child's fascination, all these scenes you've never seen.

You were never given an opportunity to appreciate street life, although streaked graffiti and trash heaps were never worth stopping to view.

On this corner, the women wear faux fur and towering heels, glitter and red lipstick. Their laughter may be fake, something you recognise from a past life, but it's safe. It's comfortable and open. All these things you never saw before. Men hold glasses of neon green liquids, smoke cigarettes with fancy lettering detailed along the white wand. Conversations are faked and dotted with sly, under-handed comments.

But in these parts, people can afford to hate each other.

Death is not a consequence.

Despite the early hours, these streets are still spilling with life. This is a city unaware of the suffering endured by its less well off counterparts. The most suffering these people endure is a broken nail, a bad school report.

Your history is written on your face, these people are well aware of where you're coming from. You are the predator among the prey. Women edge away from you, while men lean over, whispering to each other, quickly discussing Shinra policies. You keep watery blue eyes rooted to the pavement, trembling hands shoved deep in your pockets, and you silently follow Cid to the main entrance.

You can't help but notice how familiar this setting is. The strangers gossiping and giggling in the shadows of the pathways, while you miserably make your way between them, a death march.

You did not fit the street scene, and it is achingly obvious that you're not welcome here either.

Cid is hammering various call buttons, a glowing panel by the door faithfully advertising the names of its occupants, watching with a childish excitement as the switches light up, the intercom buzzing to life. He glances to you briefly, muttering, "I can't remember which one he's in" as some attempt at explanation. He folds his arms across a heaving chest, the patchwork designs of scar tissue captivating your attention momentarily.

Perhaps this man grasps a better understanding of your situation that he'd care to share.

"Leon".

The heavy door creaks open, spilling faint light across the concrete. Several voices grunt and complain words lazy and slurred, pre-maturely awoken from their beds.

A man leans casually in the doorway, an indifferent expression across his face, dark eyes simply watching the guilty man with the immature curiosity, awaiting some sort of explanation. Cid suddenly seems a little sheepish under this man's scrutinizing gaze.

"How'd you know it was me? I coulda been someone else callin' for ... well, anyone" Cid forces a laugh, gingerly scratching the back of his neck, eyes carefully watching the figure in the doorway, a little wary if anything.

You recognise that tired look, the same exhausted, hopeless gaze a parent gives a compulsively misbehaving child. The connections here run a little deeper than convenient friendships. And you jump to assume what runs through the darker man's mind. A flash of disappointment, an inability to please someone he cares about.

He's trying, but even redemption isn't good enough.

"Who else wakes up the whole complex?" he asks simply, voice low and calm, dark eyes now turning to you, scanning you briefly before flicking back to Cid, a renewed scowl across his young features. This man has been cut from the same cloth as you. He tries so hard to hide the loss and the suffering, but as a street kid, it only serves to attract you. He's aware you can see it, carefully avoiding meeting your gaze for too long, struggling to strike up conversation with cid, eyes occasionally flashing to you, wary of your presence.

Leon.

You figure he can't be much older than the brother you've lost. Once again you remind yourself you're not looking for a replacement. His grey eyes capture the ferocity of a storm, all that potential contained within one man. An anger harnessed after continuous practise. A temper celebrated as a valuable life skill in the streets. You pause to wonder if maybe this man has a body count to his name.

Are you more similar than you initially would have figured?

Aside from violent eyes, this man is like a photograph negative of your brother, strengthening your list of cons as to why you shouldn't misuse him as a replacement.

Dark hair falls to his shoulders, clings to his face in all the wrong ways. A jagged scar carved harshly across the bridge of his nose, a flash reminder of Saix' own. He towers over cid, even more so over you, but you cannot find it within yourself to fear him.

This man went through exactly the same as you. He wandered through the purgatory of the dark abandoned roads, searching for his salvation.

Despite the calm, level-headedness he displays now, this man has screamed, fought, bled, and cried.

All the things associated with human weakness.

Ironically it's only the strong ones who suffer them.

"Here's the story, found this kid out wanderin' on the highways, says he's comin' from a bad place. I want you to hole 'im up here for a while. It's a bitta culture shock headin' straight out here after what he's been through."

Leon nods, not bothering to question the older man's request, simply turning to you, measuring your capabilities, searching for your history in your eyes, the same routine checks you've put him through.

You are the favour Leon owes.

You are his redemption.

This is your new keeper, a new contender, preparing himself for the role of father-figure, if any.

You glance back towards Cid, your saving grace, a glassy gaze returned. He shakes his head, a bitter combination of exhaustion and regret, the kind of cocktail that haunts a man's mind. And even though he doesn't hold onto you, doesn't insist on saving you by his own hand, you are still his burden. He'll always remember the scrawny little blonde, the blue eyes too wide for his face. Streaked with blood and dirt, your urban camouflage. He'll file your profile away, with the countless others he's rescued from the highways between worlds.

People like Leon.

He turns to walk away, the tendrils of smoke still curling from his cigarette, your last chance to remember your own personal Jesus. You like to think that, for Cid, abandoning you to Leon's doorstep has helped him free up his conscience, his good deed for the day. You like to think he'll walk away satisfied, but deep down, he'll still itch with memories.

He walks away, but he doesn't really walk away.

The next, and final time you'll see Cid, will be a few years from now, a bitter old man facing charges imposed on him by the all-powerful Rufus Shinra. Rumours surfacing in the media regarding his 'harbouring of fugitives', rescuing wandering street kids and placing them under the watchful eye of the city authorities.

Antagonist to president Shinra.

A god to you.

Every soul he saved was a gamble, a risk he had to take, a decision as to whether or not his new apostle was capable of functioning among civilised society. Apparently his better judgement gradually failed. It could have easily been you Roxas. You could have been the one that highlighted his guilt.

You could have been a star, Roxas.

For now you watch him leave, the screech of his breaks and the bellow of his horn as he protests against the traffic, blissfully unaware of what the future has in store.

Leon's gentle cough from somewhere behind you drags you back to the living. Despite his current condition, he doesn't seem too annoyed by Cid's midnight visit, as if he had been waiting for your arrival. He effortlessly glides past reception desk, not one pair of tired eyes following his willowy movements; too busy trying to focus on the new boy in town. Leon has disappeared around a corner, with no desire to be associated with you, struggling to maintain a reputation. This is his home; he can't place it on the line, just to protect the new kid. You're from the streets. He knows your limits. It's something you have in common.

An older woman pauses from her hushed rantings, trembling, weak blue eyes quickly absorbing your appearance, each and every scratch etched into her mind. The tear streaks down your cheeks. The blood on your hands. You are the wild animal displayed for them to scrutinize, a sick entertainment. Something to remind them that no matter how hard theh fall, there are always those below them. She leans over to another woman, her voice loud enough to catch your ears, murmurings of strange kids and loose women. Foreign ghosts that haunt the complex since Leon tore in through those doors in the middle of the night and set up residence. Scenes his neighbours grow immune to as the days go by, ever since Leon forgot to leave.

You gingerly step away, nodding your head silently, some hint of respect for the gossiping elders. People who clearly relate you to the brooding, dark man you've been dumped on.

You quicken your pace, terrified of losing yourself in these monotonous corridors of similar doors. The annoyed complaints leaking out from beneath, neighbours united by their hatred of Cid's midnight calls. Leon stalks ahead of you, head tilted to the ground, the muscles in his back sliding and snapping, moving fluidly beneath battered skin, still bruised purples and yellows, an indication of a street life he's not quite content to wave goodbye to.

He stops suddenly, hesitantly, placing a timid hand on the brass door handle, his eyes threatening you, begging for your co-operation, whatever respect you can spare. You see in this man that same tired combination of emotions you see in your own reflection. The same exhaustion Axel wears.

A pretty trend for the street kids.

A man who continues to fight, although his cause is long lost. With the gentle creak of the door, a gentle voice calls out from the inky dark apartment.

"Leon?"

He doesn't bother offering you any explanation, expecting your respect as though it's something you have enough of to share out among its seekers. A respect stolen from you by Demyx, charmed off you by Axel. Demanded, threatened. You summon a brave face, smile weakly at this Leon character, brace yourself. You're alarmed with his smooth comfort in the situation.

Pale hands reach for the light switch, a hazy yellow glow highlighting shapes and shades oin his apartment. You can see the network of knotted purple veins running beneath the surface of his skin. You know the signs, aware of what to search for. The puncture wounds dotting his upper arms are by no means a well-kept secret. He expects you to keep your mouth shut. Expects you've already suffered through the same.

"What happened?" the gentle voice of a young woman, Leon doesn't bother forming a response. She lingers, a phantom accompanying the apartment. Tall and pale, stretched out elegantly to fill the hallway, kohl-lined hazel eyes stare curiously back at him, briefly flashing towards you. She subconsciously tugs her bed-sheet dress higher, back-street elegance, quickly covering the pale expanse of skin on display. Leon doesn't react as though he's acknowledged the potential for discomfort to arise.

"Cid just dropping my cousin off," he mutters distractedly, eventually, an after thought, a lie, something to keep your wandering eyes from his latest conquest.

The young woman nods in understanding, large eyes once more turning to you, taking in your sorry state. She offers a timid hand, fingernails painted a winter blue, a jolting reminder of your brother. Her hand is ice, something you easily understand Leon to find attractive. But her smile is warm; she offers no lies and tells no secrets, just the phantom that passes through to ease a lonely man's conscience.

"Rinoa," she announces, abused lips curling into a welcoming smile. The skin around her mouth red and moist, shimmering under the hall light. She's not so much an equal, as a possession, but she'll play along regardless. The kind of woman who hates to witness self-destruction.

How ironic she chooses to invest her time in a fellow street urchin.

"Roxas," you offer weakly, your grip on her fingers as light as air. The gaudy purple frames to your eyes are enough of an indication regarding your current state, and she reluctantly acknowledges the tear stains and the blood splatter. Ignorance over confrontation.

It's how civilisation operates.

Maybe you are an animal.

"What brings you over to this part of town, kid?" Leon's voice interrupts your thoughts, his monotone drawl. His return from the kitchen, glass in hand, filled to the brim with foul smelling, clear liquid. You don't miss the white-knuckled first curled around a handful of pills. For all the things he can't escape.

Rinoa's face looks torn between disappointment and concern, her frail arms looping around his stomach from behind, her ears pressed to the cage of his ribs, counting the heartbeats to remind herself that for now, he's still alive.

"There was an accident," you stutter out simply. Rinoa glances up from her pale-skinned shield. She measures your expression, searching for an appropriate reaction. Whether or not this 'accident' was a devastating mistake, or whether is was a long time coming. You carefully manage to maintain your indifference, although it's hard to see beneath the blotchy tear stains.

"An accident?" Leon repeats, voice oozing authority, patronising you with such simple efforts. He swirls the liquid, dark eyes rooted to its rotations, far more captivating than the pretty young woman clinging to him for some form of reassurance.

No doubt of Leon's past, his preference of self-destruction over human connection a common trait you street kids share.

Rinoa's angelic voice interrupts before Leon is handed the opportunity to make you feel ten feet smaller.

"What happened?" her voice quivering with concern, a combination of her fears for Leon's health along with her anxiety regarding your background story.

You take a brief moment to collect your words, organise your thoughts, and place the pieces in an order you've never spoken aloud before. What a way to face judgement before these two strangers. How fitting, your confession before darkness and light, Leon, dark and brooding, the darkness to Rinoa's light, ivory skin and pale sheets.

"I lost my ... friend?" you voice your words as a question, something Leon picks up on immediately, raising a dark eyebrow to your verbal antics. Rinoa maintains a heavy silence, once more observing your reactions, clearly uncomfortable in your presence.

The words lover had almost fallen from your lips. Leon reacts as though he caught the word before you were even aware you had spoken it. His eyes a little wider, his knuckles a little whiter. Muscles tense under pale skin.

Rinoa quickly blames it on his medication.

She coaxes him back towards the bedroom, offering you a timid smile over a bare shoulder, exhaustion finally draining the heated pink from her cheeks, the evidence of her relationship with Leon.

The muffled voices soon grow quite, the silence enveloping the apartment. And you stand, and finally take in your surroundings, pretending not to see the various bottles littered about the floor, the empty pill bottles, sedatives to Xanax. Torn letters and scraps of newspapers.

This is the life that awaits you.

This man managed to escape his own tormented story, to come here, seeking salvation. Despite the freedom he was granted, the reluctant acceptance, he resorts to the medication to rot him from the inside. A man addicted to self-harm, a dangerous downward spiral, something you encountered numerous times in the streets. He escaped, but not really.

The only thing maintaining his sanity, the open arms of a woman willing to ignore and commit ...

Rinoa leaves a week after you arrive.

The frantic screaming and make-up sex no longer enough to trap her free spirit in the house. Leon is still strong, silent, stoic but his eyes are a little darker, his face a little paler, his hands a little shakier.

Rinoa couldn't stand you, and yet Leon let her go, holding onto you like a son.

And just like that, your progress down the road of life was stunted.

You stopped to save the Good Samaritan by the roadside.

And you stayed there, in that rapidly shrinking apartment, for seven years.

* * *

_"Peak-a-boo, Axel"._

_"What have you fucking done to me?!"_

* * *

**Whew. 'least that's outta the way. Man this was a horrible chapter to write, i wanted to add waaaaaaaaay more on the end, but unfortunately, my patience ran out. So there's STILL have two chapters left.**

**Something amazing happened this week, so it's goin' to be my usual diary rant. Disney people are comin' to look at my work! How freakin' awesom-o. Maybe, in a few years, i WILL own some of these characters! lol. But for now, Nope. Also, I'm drinking tea, cider and multivitamin juice, all mushed into one. It's pretty good too!**

**I had a huge fight with my spell check, trying to spell Dorothy. The spell check was right ... who knew?**

**Anywho, tune in whenever to see what exactly Saix did to the Ax-meister, and to basically catch up on seven years of roxas' life. Should be fun. Maybe he'll go back to the slums ... visit a few familiar faces ...**


	29. Driving Nowhere

**they go out tonight. he don't even know her, she's takin' him over ...**

* * *

It takes you seven years to realize you were never meant to be anything more than trapped. These people are different, a little brighter, virginal to the problems plaguing the slums. They wear their painted masks and blinding smiles, but they are not much different to what you know. People racked with hate, armed with vicious rumors and a penchant for gossip.

They do not carry weapons, but they are well capable of causing the damage.

Over the years you watch Leon lose his control. Like a grand house burning down, something powerful and strong, something safe finally collapsing. And even in his moments of self-despair, he maintains a dangerous grace, a chilling elegance to accompany his downfall.

You made your home here, trapped in Leon's smothering apartment. He holds too many bad memories here to allow him space to breathe. His sheets still smell like Rinoa, the air thick with a tension you cannot begin to explain.

Throughout the blur of white, the years you spend, reluctantly, in each others company, you've found yourself planted before the television set, collecting your friends once more as their names appear in the headlines. The brief reports on the latest tragic happenings are the only things that attach you to your past life. You've severed all ties with the people; these stories are all you have left.

Soon after your arrival here, the president of Shinra stepped down, regretfully handing the title to his psychotic son. Although their were suspicions surrounding the previous president's sudden change of heart, it was Rufus Shinra's policies the quickly captured the attention of eager reporters and flashing cameras. Rufus maintained an almost unstable determination, a deep desire to put an effective halt to occurrences in the slums, the disease he needed to cure.

The Shinra elite suddenly found themselves under immense pressure, pushed to the forefront and placed in the spotlight. The poor begged for their help while the rich demanded it. It made you wonder whether this war is really confined to the streets.

This seems more like a war between the wealth and the poverty.

Gradually the brief reports became frequent, longer, emphasised. Rufus Shinra bragging about the success of his team, something his father could never manage. Reno's name became a buzzword, commonly appearing in household conversation, his name attached to the majority of reports leaking into broadcasting stations at obscure hours. Despite how little you know of him, it seems his character managed to hunt down his former glory. Once again searching out the big names and offering the glamorous life of a pretty face in prison. How many of the people you formerly knew, brought to their knees by the Shinra elite.

Not soon after your own escape, news stories spread like wild fire about one face you'll never forget.

Saix brought to his knees by Shinra, an accusation of attempted murder resting on his shoulders. You may have bred a deep hatred for the snarling, growling, dangerous creature that was Saix, but to see a powerful creature suddenly facing a life in a cage, it chills your blood. Makes you wonder what runs through his head.

Who betrayed him?

The reporters shuffling their sheets, pressed suits and sparkling smiles. They don't understand, they read the words from the paper as if that's all they are. But you've seen the faces, know these names have body and blood attached. Robbing him from his natural habitat is robbing him of his humanity. To place him behind bars isn't the punishment.

People like Saix can never adapt to a new life.

A fuzzy video of his arrival at Shinra headquarters is broadcast on loop, his name flashing along the bottom of the screen. The buzz of yelling voices and traffic combined. His feet fall into a death march, eyes tilted towards the pavement, tinted blue hair cascading around his shoulders, throwing those harsh angles across his features. Not even his constant sneer is visible, his enlarged fangs. The picture of defeat onscreen, hands chained, shoulders slumped.

You were unaware that this buzzing, fizzing image of Saix onscreen is the last time you'll ever lay eyes on the defeated creature.

He dissolves into his life behind bars. His name not once appearing on screen, no longer mentioned in conversation. These street ruffians are only good for the two minutes of fame, thrown away after people lose interest, discarded like a child's old toy.

Not once does Xemnas' name appear, not once does he bother to defend his pet, his second-in-command. The one person who could have ever amounted to his friend.

It serves to do nothing but highlight how two-faced and dangerous life in the slums really is.

Leon watches all these reports over your shoulder. Never voicing an opinion but wearing that vague hint of recognition on his face. A vengeful smile that tells you he too has his ties with a past life.

Demyx is the next familiar name to grace the screens, but upon mention of it, Leon rolls his eyes and takes his leave, mentioning and muttering about a sudden urge for alcohol.

You let him go, he's beyond salvation.

The reporter still boasts glittering white teeth as she informs the public of the teenage boy savagely executed and dumped in the ocean. Of course they'll never hold that tale as close to heart as you do.

The event that changed your life.

These stories aren't written for you, Roxas.

They're written about you.

The most tragic report regarding Demyx' death is perhaps that the authorities noted him to be a victim of a sex crime. Although the word 'victim' would suggest an involuntary action. Demyx was the only one who held a right to his destruction. He refused to let anyway else break him down.

His mental wounds were self inflicted.

And you shake your head and change the channel, feeling the familiar sting in the corners of your eyes. Bite your lips and pretend you forget.

It seems to work for Leon.

You retreat into his lifestyle, the habits of a man finding himself totally lost on the path of life. Attempting to drown yourself in the shallow glasses of burning clear liquids. You chase the girls who'll never love you because you can't face that kind of commitment. You can't face the permanent, because this is the section of your life you'd rather not consider permanent. Wake up every morning and tell yourself that you can recover from this low blow dealt to you.

Brush it off and face the facts.

This is all there is.

You quickly lose your obsession; your urge to glue yourself before these twenty four hour news shows, trying to identify memories. You can't face the truth that the people you've left behind continue on in your absence. Deep down it hurts you, because you know the truth. Cloud abandoned you, your life continued. Axel rages on without his brother's support. These people lead individual lives, and you hate that fact, because right now, you struggle to lead your own.

A childish habit of 'I want what I can't have'.

Often nights you leave that hellish apartment, the hole you find yourself trapped in. Nod briefly to Leon, mutter your parting words and hope they're the last you ever have to share with him. Dark eyes don't settle on you, he busies himself with the memories these walls hold for him. Close the door behind you and let out a rib-aching sigh.

He's the insanity trapped within those walls.

This apartment is his asylum.

You crawl the bars, stroll the streets like old times, fearful eyes watching your very movement. You grew out of your shell, but your reputation was something you could never outgrow. Wealthy women with pale skin and black stained lips still elbow their husbands, no words forming, but they gesture wildly at you with frail, liver-spotted hands.

People still fear you, Roxas, and all you want is a friend.

You sit by the neon lit bars, pumping techno thumping in your ears, your heartbeats matching the beat. Puddles of unidentifiable liquid littering the countertop, your head in your hands. This scene is another torn from your black and white memories. You can almost smell, taste axel hunched awkwardly beside you, the harsh white of his skin contrasting against black rimmed eyes leaking acid to anyone who cares to look deep enough. The brush of his knuckles against your skin, the pale column of his throat as he leant forward to whisper his advances to Riku.

Suddenly you want nothing more than human contact and someone to lie to you, tell you they love you.

Desperate eyes scan the pulsing crowd, frosty blue searching for heat, someone to keep you warm tonight. The rich little princess' of city officials slinking by, cradling glowing green liquid in their glasses, more skin than clothing. They may fear you, cautiously watch you through lashes thick with mascara, but they enjoy their dares, playing with their fears.

Their victories measured by how close they can get to the 'street boy'.

The girls gradually became numbers, all traces of their individuality lost. Strange shadows lingering in Leon's doorway, awaiting their invite. You liked to focus on their backgrounds, discover what terrors lurk there, what drives them into your frozen arms.

One woman, scratching her forties and deprived of a life between the sheets for so long, came to you, requesting your services. And not once did it cross your mind that you were developing into everything you hated. She bought your drinks, flaunting a considerable wad of cash, a smirk across her thin lips, her nonsensical whispers in your ear, her vein-ribbed hand in your crotch.

You took her home, invited her into your suffocating cage, Leon passed out once more over the toilet, his pills clutched lovingly in his hands. His only companion nowadays.

His retreat into darkness.

This woman, Aurora, she lays sprawled across your sheets, the cigarette dangling for her lips, thick smoke curling in her bleach blonde hair. Her make up barely covers her surgery scars. A woman struggling to grasp hold of a childhood she's outlived.

When angels fall, they fall hard.

This one seemed to take a nose-dove off her cloud of wealth, and she hit you, her metaphorical dirt, pretty hard.

With her plastic nail scratches still dripping red trails down your back, she hands you a card, white paper with curled golden letters, boasting her position as some ministers' wife. Rubbing your past in your face. She leaves while the bed sheets are still warm. And that night you use her business card to roll a joint and dwell on what you've become. The images almost sicken you.

But only almost.

Your next venture enters your life with a bright smile and a friendly hello. A single mother working night shift in a nearby supermarket. You encounter her frequently on your early morning visits and each day you make her lose a little more faith in mankind.

She watches you stalk the isles, your purple framed eyes tilted to the floor, hands shoved deep in your pockets, your hair bed-ruffled and your posture sinking into itself. Life is catching up to you with its fatal claws, scratching at your heart, reeking havoc on your body.

She watches your delicate fingers skim over bottles, a kid in a candy shop, a destructive young man facing shelves of alcohol.

She scans your items, a regretful tint to hazel eyes; you place your hands on the check out to steady yourself. You're too exhausted to carry the weight of the world any longer.

You notice her family photo, much like the one you tore to shreds back home, but in it, her smile is genuine, her children laughing and tugging at her apron. You almost manage a smile, and it's such a foreign expression on your face that makes her pause, following your line of sight to the tattered old photo.

"Those are my boys. adorable, aren't they?" she coos, abandoning your collection of bottles to stroke the photo with a manicured nail, as if the frame holds a portal to bring her back to the moment it captured. You're too tired to be tactical, aware you're about to intrude on her personal life.

There is nothing gentle about an intrusion.

"No father?" you mutter simply, your voice harsh from misuse. You've neglected yourself, Roxas. Those hazel orbs darken slightly, a faint blush spreading across the bridge of her nose. Flustered, she pushes loose chocolate strands behind her ears, struggling to form a story for you. Attempting to glorify an average man with average kids and an average partner.

Everyone likes to admit the universe revolves around them.

"He's actually working to help solve the problems outside the city, in the less fortunate areas," she explains simply, just short of placing a halo on the mans head. You shake your head, brushing off her explanation with a frustrated snort. You struggle to understand why she'd brother to defend a man who's wronged her. A man who's abandoned her.

Her mouth tells you one tale, but the words in her eyes tell you another.

"I grew up without a father figure, and I turned out okay," you grunt, the colour visibly draws from her face. You too have your own history etched into your skin, and she reads it well. It's not difficult to understand what it is you do. You like to think of yourself as the healer, offering a bed, a way for these women to fill the voids in their lives. When in reality, the only reason they venture near your doorstep is for a free fuck, no strings attached. And unlike their husbands, the men concealing the credit cards and the cash, they have nothing to lose mistreating you.

After all, Roxas, despite everything, you're really still a kid.

Not soon after your first encounter, you wake up in this woman's bed to the sound of her sons playing downstairs. Your surroundings are clean, fresh, bright, all the things you've never managed to associate with your lifestyle. It's overwhelming in the sickening sense, painfully reminding you of something you'd rather forget. You pull on your jeans, bundle your clothes in your arms, mutter some sort of 'sincere' apology to her still slumbering form.

Not once do you return to her maze of isles and alcohol for fear of confrontation.

"I'm sorry; you're too much like Namine. I can't do this again".

Your brief adventure with the hazel haired woman between the sheets is enough to stunt your social development. It marks a change in your mentality, another fork in your road.

You reacquaint yourself with news broadcasts, following the stories obsessively, religiously. Less focused placed on the faces you once knew, now your find yourself counting all the wives of government officials you've had sprawled on your piss-stained mattress. You compare that to the number of them who uttered the words 'I love you'.

You angrily reach your conclusions that to them, you're simply a body, a young man willing to offer himself to jagged old housewives living under the shadows of their husbands.

You were someone's salvation Roxas.

It's just a pity no one is willing to be yours.

It's through these familiar broadcasts, the celebrity news, red carpets and riches, you find yourself once again gazing into the bottomless blue eyes of a woman who tried, and failed to maintain her grasp over your battered heart. And now you'd willingly had it to her. You're desperate to surrender, but you have yet to discover who you're surrendering to.

'Can you tell us when your latest exhibit is opening?' a snotty reporter faking his interest in a young woman who deserves the world. Pressed suits and a powdered nose.

This is the modern interpretation of man.

Are you taking notes, waster?

The young woman smiles, still a virginal sight, still a gesture that weakens your knees. And you watch, fascinated, your fingertips pressed to the buzzing image of her pale skin onscreen. Like the single mother scanning your alcohol, you touch the screen as if it offers you a portal to a better life.

Namine smiles back, oblivious.

Still an angel among civilisation.

"At the end of next month actually. It's my new collection, scenes from the slums. I'd like to help president Shinra in opening the eyes of the public to what's really going on down there".

She has no idea of the trail of chaos she's left in her wake.

You're the poster boy for her dark past.

These photographers, reporters desperate for a good story, they of no idea of the pure young woman's destructive roots.

The little blonde boy clutching her hand the only scar she carries from her past.

One wound she can't recover from, she bares it with a smile.

Tidus.

Your son.

Even when she left you, realising you were doing nothing but slowly poisoning her, you still managed to destroy her life.

And she still sees you in his eyes every day.

He wears her bright smile, her pale complexion. But those piercing blue eyes are yours, his blonde hair the same shade as yours. This is the son you'll never meet.

Your living legacy she stolen from you.

You change the channel before the rage builds up to intolerable heights, slamming your fist on the remote, cracking the plastic, the batteries rolling, forgotten, across the bare wooden floors.

Leon overhears you, stumbling from the dark bowels of the house, hand cradling his head, fingernails embedded in his scalp. He stops, looming in the hallway, the dark shadows of death, cutting shadows and glaring eyes staring you down, roaming from your knotted expression to the shattered remote. A muffled cracking sound, his fist compressing around his familiar pill bottle, his constant companion.

His reassurance that he can get by tomorrow.

You and Leon never grew to like each other, you were only some task for him to complete, a job handed to him, courtesy of Cid. And he was too stubborn to admit his failure. Your conversations were blunt, brief, harsh. Cutting words you've both grown immune to throughout your years spent surviving in the slums. He expresses himself through those turbulent eyes, his dangerous moods shift like bad weather in the grey orbs.

When he does speak, his voice is torn, rough, hard to listen to, the sounds cracking and breaking, the consequences of the long nights he spends screaming his troubles to his pillow, the material doing little to muffle his anguish.

"I think you should get a job" he grumbles, a little concerned with regards to your constant haunting of his home. And you nod, uninterested, your head still buzzing from seeing your kid on television, some fancy red-carpet accessory for his mother. You don't know who you hate more. Her or you. It's pure jealousy pumping through your veins, Leon's voice dragging you back to reality.

"Good".

He retreats to his room.

The next time you see him, when the ambulance arrives, people in white overalls, armed with tanks and tubes. While they're yelling, shouting statistics at each other like some ridiculously inappropriate game of bingo, you mange to pick yourself off the couch, your body weak and frail from lack of movement.

'Restrain his hands. We're going to have to pump his stomach'

You walk away from the apartment; leave the scene of distress behind you.

You've walked away from someone facing their angle of death before, what's to stop you doing it again.

* * *

"Kid, we've had a million and one little punk come in here and demands a position. This is by no standards a game."

"Yeah, Polly Pocket, you wouldn't be able to deal with your team mates, let alone the streets".

How ironic.

You're seated in a stark Shinra office. The walls a glaring white, a simple desk situated in the centre, one seat where you now reside, your knees knocking together, but determination in your eyes. A large, heaving bulk of a man leans against one wall, his shoulder seemingly supporting the entire structure, eyes obscured by dark shades, a fashion habit that unnerves you to no end. He wears a suit, neat, pristine, a man who takes pride in his appearance as well as his career. His expression remains passive throughout the meeting, his blonde companion acting as his facial muscles, expressing enough of her private thoughts to represent the both of them, each gesture exaggerated, amplified.

She leans across the table, nose almost touching yours. She can smell the alcohol and sex off your breath, her nose wrinkled, blue eyes angered by the whole situation.

"I'm not leaving," you snarl. You're not eighteen anymore Roxas. You've grown, taller, thinner, your face gaunt, but you loom over her, although still shadowed by her bulky assistant. You've got your private objectives.

You can make her want you, or want to hate you.

It's a game, even though you know it shouldn't be.

You can hardly keep the smirk from your face, even as her anger bleeds to her fists, the repeating, monotonous thumping pattern as she beats her fists on the metal desk. She's infuriated by you, like she's had her experience with your type. The trashy street kid who's finally given up, no longer capable of taking something as trivial as a life so seriously. Her pattern manages to look amused without twitched a muscle in his face.

"Stop wasting our time, kid. A small breeze could take you out, twiggy".

She stands, coughing lightly, trying to disguise her blatant frustrations, her obvious rage. Bested by a street punk. Adjusts her shirt with delicate fingers, ensures just the right amount of skin is on display, the opening of her collar dipping a little low.

"It's in your best interest to leave, little boy," she snarls again, forcing a sweet smile across her face, the muscles contorting her expression into something ugly, the blue of her eyes dimming black in her anger. Small, polished fists curl at her sides, you glance pleadingly at the man, confident you can take the hit, but desperate for another chance.

His voice is a promise that settles you in your skin.

"Hold on a minute, Elena. Maybe we should ask for another opinion. Usually these little children are crying by now, this one's coped relatively well".

The blonde woman, Elena, stops her silent fuming to throw a questioning glance at her accomplice. Clearly so many words strung together are a rarity in his case. She's momentarily lost, unable to form any words, simply watching in a child-like fascination as the larger man presses a call button by the door, his eyes measuring you the whole time. He does not need reason to be disappointed in you. He's about to waste a superior officer's time. You sit a little straighter; fold your hands neatly in your knees, prepared for any physical contact anyone wishes to make with your face.

Its painful minutes before the sounds of gentle swearing and an angry receptionist reach your ears from behind the doors. The grunting and groaning of someone disturbed from work.

"This better be good. I've gotta sort out some report for Shinra"

All eyes instantly transfer to the figure lingering in the doorway, and you almost feel your heart stop. This man is the reason you came here. This is events coming full circle.

"Reno?"

Elena and the incredible hulk glance towards you, to each other, sharing concerned glances, their first suspicion that your knowledge of Reno's identity is a result of criminal activity. Elena leans back, finding a comfortable position by her co-worker, confident Reno can handle this situation without their interference. After all, the boy's managed to maintain quite the reputation.

There's no doubt in your mind, who this sharp-edged figure his. He all harsh angles and exhausted posture. Electric blue eyes, something he doesn't share with his younger brother, but the shock of red hair is undeniably a trait the brothers share. He's calm, collected, strands of crimson falling into sleepy eyes. He yawns, tiredly rubbing his eyes before yanking a single cigarette from behind his ear, his suit in considerably worse condition than his co-workers. Clearly Reno doesn't place as much emphasis on his career.

"What do you want?" he snarls. It's hard to ignore Elena's rapidly straightening posture, how her hands flutter to her sides, to her hair, primping and preparing. Perhaps Reno had done a little better than his brother in matters related to the heart. Axel doesn't seem able to support something capable of loving him for more than a few days.

"A job," you answer simply, seeing too much of your former friend in this looming scarecrow of a character to feel intimidated. He even manages to capture Axel's mannerisms, the confident swagger, the brush of knuckles against your skin, convincing you that this is all friendly banter, that whatever occurs within these walls has no consequences on your life in the real world. He hums behind you, the smell of smoke suffocating, constricting your throat. His scare tactics. His touching and purring normally enough to deter potential Shinra elite. Not only did he fight his way to the top in the underworld of crime that is your home, his home, Reno fought his way to the top within the Shinra towers. He's a man well acquainted with secret tactics and dirty techniques.

His brother's brother.

You fail to see how a rift ever begun in their relationship.

Before you're given the opportunity to develop any opinions on his shady character, his fist collides with your face, the sickening shatter of bone ringing in your ear, an explosion of blood across your face.

You stand up instantly, control thrown to the wind, the chair clattering to floor, Reno once more raising that elegant eyebrow, only mildly interested in the events unfolding before his eyes. You gesture frantically to your face, unable to form words, any response shocked from your lungs by his sudden and rather extreme reaction to your job inquiry. He simply gestures to his raised eyebrow, a silent inquiry as to why you're so upset, as though you have absolutely no reason to be upset, or angered.

He's testing you.

You take a deep breath. Calm yourself. He wants to see you lose control. He's a city kid, it's what they crave, the breakdown of human barriers.

Anything to make them feel better about themselves.

You take your seat, heaving it from the floor, planting yourself down angrily, clutching your face, struggling to ignore the blood oozing from between your fingers.

"Good boy," he purrs, leaning close to you once more, revelling in the scent of blood, "Now, tell me how you knew me. Not sure I've met you before".

He doesn't seem angry, frustrated, his tone is light, airy, like a child singing a nursery rhyme. He advertises the same wondrous detachment Axel operates under. You spit the name from your tongue like venom; it has the same effects as venom would on Reno's slinky body.

"Axel told me about you".

Reno's joints stiffen, blue eyes glazing over, a grim frown set across his features, an expression that looks foreign to his face. Despite his situations, this man knows how to wear a dazzling smile. He knows how to fake it. Elena frantically elbows the larger man, not saying anything, her eyes carefully measuring Reno's expression, fixated on his intentions.

"And how do you know axel?" his voice is chilling this time, sending a painful shiver up your spine, but you manage to grasp at your control. You can picture the focus and danger pinpointed in his eyes, but he has yet to turn his frantic glare on you.

"I was his best friend, when he had no one left," you purr, borrowing your statistics from Reno's archives. Elena is the first to verbally explode.

"Don't you DARE! You have NO idea of the trouble Reno's family were facing. HE was willing to make a difference, unlike that other creep! Is he still down there, playing with people's minds?" she all but shrieks, the panes of glass in the tiny window almost rattling at her pitch.

Now it's Reno's turn to display that cool, collected character he had been boasting earlier. The words are sinister, sickening. Enough to knot your stomach.

"Shut up, Elena."

A heavy silence envelopes the room. Reno mentally debating the best plan of action, while Elena ruins through her immediate defence of him, wondering where she overstepped her mark, what it was that upset him so deeply. The larger bulk of a creature watches their interactions with a detached amusement, like the exhausted father unwilling to interrupt the argument between his young son and daughter.

Reno spins on his heel, making eye contact with you, frail hands placed high on his hips. His face impassive, his usual smirk schooled into a thin line, his expression offering nothing to you. No insight into the mind of this man who single-handedly dragged the slums to its knees. Crime lords no longer fearing each other. A mass revolution against a single man, barely scratching thirty.

"Yah'know kid? You're kinda tolerable. Let's put you through training, see whatcha can do."

And just like that, Reno turned his co-workers against himself, his desire for contact with his brother easily outdoing his concerns regarding their welfare. Elena maintains a steady vow of silence towards the red-haired scarecrow. But their office troubles are the least of your worries. After all, it really only hits you now. While you came here, searching for Reno, searching for a way to help Axel. You know Reno can't ever really help his younger brother, if he is in fact totally aware of the odd jobs Axel likes to involve himself with. He can't harbour a dangerous criminal.

Axel has quite the body count.

He's not really looking to contact his brother directly, for fear of his relationships within the slums becoming broadcast over the news channels due to the reporters that follow him around so eagerly.

He's looking for a constant medium, someone he can use and abuse. Someone Axel is willing to listen to. Someone he still harbours human emotion for. The fact that you're still breathing is proof enough to him that Axel does in fact hold some sort of concerns about you.

He was never really worried about you though.

You were just convenient to him.

And now you play the same role to Reno.

An object of convenience.

It doesn't hit at full force until you're sitting alone that night, hunched on the couch, head in your hands, the sounds of silence making you head ache. This apartment is abandoned, Leon's presence bleached from the air.

He's not dead.

But he's getting there.

The television set isn't on, the familiar faces of the same old reporters no longer taunt you with their surgery smiles, pressed suits and plucked eyebrows. The batteries for the remote lie discarded beneath the sofa. In this painful silence, this overwhelming loneliness, you realise you've done to your best friend, the only thing that would internally kill him.

You followed in the footsteps of the brother he couldn't stand; you've abandoned him to help a cause he fought against.

You left him, to join Shinra.

To join Reno.

That night, you curl up, and you cry until your lungs heave.

And still, you manage to place blame on Cloud.

* * *

In the weeks following your venture into the world of the Shinra employees, Reno develops a strong hatred for you, disgusted by your appearance, often dealing with you through his own sub-ordinates, having no interest in dealing with you directly. He's gradually realised that the bonds between you and Axel are for now, non-existent.

For you, he no longer has any use.

You're just that little blonde kid he trains occasionally.

Your days are darkened by guilt, how quickly you abandoned Axel. And once again you find yourself craving someone else's body heat. The inevitable chain of events is set off again, your late night club crawls, your desperate search for an honest 'I love you'. Searching for another princess of heart.

It's through these late night adventures you meet the girlfriend that obsesses you. Someone that contains aspects of the people you betrayed, the people you've left behind.

Blood-shaded hair, like Axel's, Demyx' fascination with water, his childish humour, Namine's smile.

Ariel was the neglected daughter of a high ranked Shinra employee. She wandered home with you one night, a drug-induced smile worn prettily on her face. Wide eyes searching the streets as though she'd never seen them before. Ten dollar dresses from second-hand stores worn under band t-shirts and oversized hoodies.

She doesn't argue, takes your verbal abuse with a trembling smile. And she stays, never strays, because she's not capable of hating you.

A rarity in itself.

She tells you she loves you every few minutes, wants you to know how she feels, even though she herself has yet to understand.

To put a smile on your face makes her day.

But it's not her lips you long to here the 'I love you' from.

Seven years after your arrival, you're twenty five years old. And each day you wake up, hoping that today's the day Leon finally returns to you, to point you in the right direction, even though he could never find it himself.

Through his private destruction, you ignored Leon, carefully avoided his illnesses, aware that his symptoms were all the future had to offer you. And as his personal disease chases you, you suddenly want nothing more than to return to the streets.

Suddenly you need to hear Axel's voice.

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**seriously seriously rushed, terrible spelling mistakes, but you can all verbally bitch slap me in reviews. i have to go catch a plane in like 20 minutes, thought i'd rustle somethin' up on here before i head. i stayed up all night with a tooth ache and i haven't eaten in a very long time. tch.**

**so yeah, any questions leave'em in comments and i'll answer'em. only one chapter left, then i'll be headin' on over to 'fix yourself up, bruv.' this was supposed to be really choppy by the way, Roxas is only thinking back on memorable parts of his seven years, so it comes in flashes. that's why he's got a whole buncha conflicting 'feelings' in different parts.**

**everyone who reads has gotta leave me a review so i'll have somethin' to read when i get back ...**

**.. man, i hate flying ...**


	30. Born To Bail

**Last chapter. We're done now. And just in time. My computer is foo-ked. My interweb is shit, and i spilled gravy into my keyboard, so half my keys aren't working. Writing this here because i don't want to 'ruin the mood' at the end by adding my stupidity. **

**And i figure this chapter is going to cause a few problems, it's a little confusing, so there's two people with the same name. But if people are having problems, i'll explain it better. Also, The start of the convo between Axel and Roxas is nicked directly from their first encounter, sentimental value and all that.**

**So thanks for readin', drop me a line. gleam the cube with crazy sickness. Don't own anything i referenced in here either btw. :D  
**

* * *

_'This vicious velvet ain't enough, so baby make a move. My neon eyes are set on you. The devils' language tastes of lust.'_

* * *

There's this kid.

He has no name, something he's surrendered to his memories. Offered up to his past life, the end of an era. He walks through these streets as a nameless character, someone just passing through. He's not memorable; a name is not a necessity. It's simply extra baggage. For these moments, for this stretch of street and these eager strangers swallowing his movements with their hungry eyes, he is simply 'the boy'.

The streets have transformed, morphed into something a little less captivating than its colourful past, a concrete jungle tamed by the restrictive powers of the Shinra Empire. The graffiti gospels seem a little less bright; strangers slink by with practised smiles on their faces, hell in their eyes. Nod to acknowledge him, like they recognise his face, familiarised themselves with his legend, and he absorbs their odd behaviour through hazy blue eyes, bloodshot, framed in sickly purple hues.

The pretty girls in their Technicolor dresses have vanished, shadowed voids lining the street where sparkling teeth and taunting eyes once would reside. High pitched laughs have faded into silence, terrorised screams now blending with the dull thud of machinery. The men that once chased these glitter-painted succubi have disappeared, the smell of their sweat, their desperation dissolved into the air.

This boy walks like he owns this, like these streets boast his title. The few that pass run weary eyes over him, struggle to recall his features, attempting to place his face. It's hard to place features on something divine, which is essentially what he is. The face of revolution after its surgery. A dull smile and weary eyes. The kind of kid who takes travel sickness pills, because the world around him spins so fast.

He hates the sensation of losing control.

More and more of these windows are boarded up, stories sealed behind rotten wood, while the stains on the concrete fade like the faces once attached to them. This, to the boy, is a new world, proof that life goes on despite his absence, so he'll keep wandering to find something familiar, something he can hold on to, to remind him that he was once a part of this.

In his eyes, these people have forgotten him, just another stranger lost on his way.

In their eyes, his halo is blinding.

The buildings eventually thin, the bland concrete and steel of the city gradually dissolving into green, nature regaining its control. The city lights dim in the distance, on the path the boy leaves behind him as his exhausted footsteps carry him further on his private quest. Ahead, the silhouettes of shattered stone crosses, gravestones without names loom against the dying light.

The backdrop to his life.

Standing at the entrance, gazing out beyond the boundary walls of this death pen, the shadows seem a little sharper, a little darker. These fields where the phantoms play, no longer bound by their physical torture. The roar of wind tearing through the treetops, the only sound penetrating his busy mind. Images of faint faces and encouraging words fluttering through his head. His history showing through his eyes. Shadows move, waltz through this disorganised rows, dropping petals and old love letters on the earth, proving to their deceased that they still hold close the bonds with their past.

The boy hadn't been so sympathetic.

He moves through death like one of the very spirits that reside here. His head tilted to the ground, tightly clenched knuckles shoved deep in the pockets of his tattered pants. His breathing uneven, glancing at the engraved names as he passes by. He doesn't bother to look ahead until the soothing whispers stop him in his pointless march. Hushed and hoarse, words of regret spilling from someone's lips like blood, thick and heavy, weighing on the boys conscience. His wordless guilt.

A disfigured shadow hangs across the grave, distorted and stretched. Not a spiritual shadow, this is a shadow of the physical. More specifically a man, head tilted in respect, oblivious to his spy. He's thin, painfully so, skin white, shimmering, like sugar, the only evidence of the illness warping his body. It's easy to overlook this character, because on any given day, he could easily be mistaken for a lost soul, a phantom still suffering under the boundaries of life. Black collar pulled up tight around his chin, distorting his words. Fingers yellowed by years of tobacco abuse curl and twist by his side.

The boy is lost, his entire vocabulary draining out his toes. Unable to reassure this tortured soul in its broken body.

"How do you two know each other?" the boy instantly raises a hand to his lips, silently scolding himself for interrupting this private moment, nodding towards the grave as an afterthought.

The looming phantom takes a moment to respond, to taste his words and pack them with warning. Not once does he raise his eyes from the dirt path. He's found the answer to life, and the solution of death scratched into the dust.

"He was like a brother," he breathes, his voice as frail as his body, the boy straining to catch the words before they dissolved.

The boy, he recalls the sensation of loss, understands the emptiness that accompanies losing someone that important. Because the boy knows deep down, that despite his best efforts, no person has complete control of their lives. That's a power lies in their loved one. When you give them up, you offer up the control they had. It drives those left behind, a little more crazy then life has already made them.

The boy would know, he's touched insanity, ran angry red lines down her pale skin just to prove he wasn't tempted by her pretty face. He never wore insanity well.

After so much loss, there's nothing to do but laugh.

"I'm sorry," offers the boy, waiting hopefully for a smile to break out across the older boy's face. Waiting for the moment, the second of recognition, when he realises that laughter is the medicine.

The joke is we all have the same punch line.

The older boy manages to twist his face into his best excuse at a smile, a dirty sneer. He's finally understood a pathetic joke, but it's not his life he's laughing at. It's his interrogators.

"Who're you?" he says simply, after pulling his collar from his face, giving the boy a glimpse at what death might look like. He still wears his sneer with pride, his skin still smooth, features still angular. Poisonous eyes gazing dreamily at the boy, not bothering to take in the details of his appearance. Confident he can provoke a name from him.

It's the boy's turn to sweat, to feel like this intrusion is a sin, something branded into his forehead to advertise his shame. He raises a trembling hand to swipe at the dirt coloured locks falling into his eyes. This situation suddenly feels achingly familiar.

The painful sort of deja vu that picks at your insides.

"You can call me Sora," offers the boy, finally, his simple words wiping the dangerous expression off the older man's features.

The sickly pale canvas of his face falls back into his previous expression, a blank canvas cleverly disguising his thoughts behind acidic eyes. His skin reeks of hostility; his eyes remain the picture of tranquillity.

Suddenly suspicion is his middle name.

"What're you doin' here?" he pries, before his world-weary eyes fall shut, the weight of his dark lashes too heavy for him to handle. His body can barely support itself. The skin around his eyes raging red, abused. But a coy smile hangs on his lips.

Sora manages to form a response behind pressed lips, fighting the shivers this stranger sends jolting up his spine.

"Comin' to visit a friend, much likes yourself. Saw you here, Thought maybe you could us the company".

Sora offers his best smile, a painful curl at the corners of his mouth, his lips aching, stretched into an expression he'd avoided for so long. Glassy blue eyes still watch the lingering phantom eagerly, knuckles glowing white as he forms fists in his pockets, expecting the worst of this envy-eyed disaster. He doesn't glance up from the patches of dirt and grass, doesn't bother with words to respond, simply snorts his amusement, trying desperately to fight a smile as Sora attempts to verbally impress him.

"Bet he was a good guy," he offers pathetically, an uncharacteristic waver bleeding into his voice, his nervousness exposed to anyone who cares to notice. The audible click and slide of his knuckles beneath his skin. The broken boy before him manages a smile, the expression too sharp on his face. Incapable of a welcoming expression, borderline psychotic.

"He was," he says simply, nodding in agreement with his own statement before taking a painful breath, preparing himself to say more, but unsure of how to do so.

"Sora? Have we met before?" voicing it as a question he already knows the answer to. He's not bothered with eye contact. He doesn't need to read this boys eyes to notice the sudden tension, the over-bearing hesitation, awkward, unprepared. Like the boy had fabricated some fantastical story, some happy lie to put a smile on his face, but still managed to overlook the valuable details, the important facts.

The boy's breaths stop, his heavy, thick heaves, the smell of alcohol on his breath. His heartbeat pounds in both of their ears.

The blackened shadow is the first to ease the tension, a raspy laugh, tendrils of smoke choking him from the inside. He'll grin and bare it.

He's been holding hands with the reaper since before he learned how to walk.

"I'll get going, I'd hate to intrude on your visit," the shadow smiles awkwardly, ruffling his clothing, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear, a habit he shared with his elder brother. Sucking his poisons through thin lips, his elixir, he takes another deep breath, pausing before he can form the words, a hand resting on his wrist bringing him to an effective verbal halt.

"I'm just passing through; I've got a few more stops to make. "I'll see you around-" the boy speaks, blurring his words together as though he's running out of oxygen, the entire situation constricting his lungs, sending his head reeling. Peels his desperate fingertips from the cold leather of the shadows coat, moves to step away, the earth groaning in light of his abandonment.

He can see the rusted gates of freedom looming in the distance, right now; he'd rather be anywhere else.

His rotten downtown apartment, shared only with the ghosts of the people he'd never admit he cared for, phantom imitations of his memories etched out on the white walls as a constant reminder of what he's left behind.

He'd favour lying between strangers sheets, counting his cash before his latest victim decides he wasn't worth soiling their reputation. They may parade under their fancy titles, ministers and judges; but to him there are all just victims of his compulsive emotional theft.

Everyone looks the same naked, it's hard to pin these medals of honour to bare skin.

Each night he reduces them to ashes, and in the morning they arise anew.

He's developed an attachment for being used.

The voice of the looming stranger stops him dead in his tracks.

"Roxas?"

The boy spins around upon recognising his name.

He opens his mouth to bleed his confessions, his apologies. To admit he's done wrong, he shouldn't have left. His alliances with the Shinra family.

_'Shut up, come back, no I didn't really mean to say that. I love you, I hate you. If only you knew what I've been through.'_

Axel never really seemed like the forgiving type.

Before Roxas has a chance to fall to his knees, finally cry for something worth fighting for, weep until he feels worth it, the sound of gentle footsteps trotting from among the patchwork carpet of dirt and grass, graves and flowers crashes his train of thought. He watches in confusion, how Axel spreads willowy arms, eyes not focused on any thing in particular. Just waiting. How he's spent the majority of his years. Waiting for Reno. Waiting for Roxas.

A flash of green and blonde, a small bundle hurling itself into his open arms, knotting tiny fists in his jacket, giggling uncontrollably as axel runs bony fingers gently across his features, a warm smile across his lips as he does so.

"Who's this guy?" the kid questions, a slightly menacing tint to his voice, blonde brows suddenly drawn into an intimidating frown, a scrutinising gaze that resembles someone from Roxas' past. Axel ruffles the boy's blonde tufts, setting him back on the grass, a slight blush dusted along the bridge of his nose.

"This is Sora," he smiles, happily playing along with Roxas' desperate charade, "Sora, this is my son, Roxas."

"Strange name," mumbles 'Sora', instantly defensive upon news of Axel's son. The immediate response cuts him down to his ankles.

"I named him after my best friend".

The original Roxas chews his lip, lowers his eyes, fights the stinging sensation burning him from the inside. His heart flutters a little faster, his chest and head pumping in unison. It's no secret to lay eyes upon this little kid, blonde hair hanging in his eyes, poisonous eyes glaring up at this 'stranger', his namesake. A walking advertisement for his father's passion and his mother's ruthlessness. It pains the older blonde to realise that in his absence, Axel relapsed, fell straight back into the arms of a woman bent on destroying him.

Larxene being some poor imitation of the position Roxas used to fill in Axel's life.

He hates to admit the world carries on without him, but this is his living proof.

Axel's not happy, but it's the first word that springs to mind.

Even now, studying the expressionless face of someone who he once considered handing his heart to, Roxas sees what attracts him to these people, the street circus, the people mad to live, mad to be saved. They are what his is not. Pure passion pumping through their veins. While his body may suffer around him, crumble under the pressure of his extremes, Axel is never really exhausted, his mind constantly in overdrive. He never yawns, he's never ordinary.

He burns.

He pops, explodes, consuming to watch, but spreading devastation to those closest to him.

But he always held close the legend of his best friend.

The streets answer to Romeo and Juliet.

This little blonde boy may be Axel's legacy, Larxene's, but his name belongs to someone else.

He'll always have an interesting story to tell at parties.

_'You'll never admit it Roxas, but you fell so hard in love, you broke your neck. And while he recovered, you still nurse your wounds'_

"Do you know cloud?" asks the young boy, grubby fingers gently stroking the carved lettering on the shattered gravestone, wide jade eyes still regarding Roxas with a child's suspicion, a child's mistrust.

The young boy's animosity deserved by his namesake.

Roxas nods slowly, struggling to hold back a smile at the fascination the young boy seems to harbour for this slab of forgotten stone. Simply a name left. Two words to remind those left behind of the years he spent among them.

Studying the scene before him now, Roxas realises just how much he owes to Axel. The friend he never wanted, who worked tirelessly behind the scenes of his life, worked to create a strong image. Axel kept his memory alive, because planting a gravestone would be resignation to a death that may not have happened.

He used his pretty words to tell the story of the boy who fell in love with the stripper.

A romance doomed from the beginning.

And while Roxas still silently fumes with regards to the ordinary routines of day to day life he fell into over the years, axel made him a god.

To see them like this, axel, raging towards his death. His life is just a scene, a brief moment in a play, and he's eager to change his character, to rush off stage and return as someone else.

_'Eyes like sea glass, so weathered and worn, from all they've seen of adolescence torn'_.

To see his son, the beginning of a new generation, young and fresh-faced, his childishly pure mind painted dirty with stories Axel has told him. But this boy can never be the face of revolution.

_'Because that was you'._

This is proof that life continues, that people may not necessarily feel happiness, but they can fake it.

This is evidence of the following generation, kids who'll tell his story, Axel's story, Demyx's story, like gospel, holy words.

A relief to Axel, who can finally step down, find some silence to live out the rest of his years.

He can already feel his body dying all around him.

Roxas knows, deep down, he didn't come to see his brother, his own flesh and blood buried beneath the violence. He came to see someone he cared about, to see they were surviving, and it seems now, axel has erased his memory of him.

Roxas has collected information over the years they spent apart. Spent late nights sifting trough Shinra files, fingertips blackened by smudged ink. He only ever wanted to know how his rejects survived.

Axel bundles his child in his arms, kissing the young boys forehead, eyes gazing dreamily back into the past. The almost audible snap as Roxas' heart shatters in his chest.

_'I will remember the colour of your eyes when no one else in the world remembers your name'._

The burning envy, a jealous green, a difficult colour to encounter in a city composed of glass and metal. Nature is a rarity, as is Axel.

In his mind, Roxas compares the two, the vision from his past against the figure now. Past Axel, the image of teenage stupidity, leather and lace, skin and devastating addictions. A sly smile and hell in his eyes. Time has drained him of his colour. Crimson locks pulled back from his face, bones jutting through his pasty skin. Lips pale, explosive eyes almost dimmed to pastels.

He's older, but not necessarily wiser.

The child in his arms having stolen his bright spark, those green eyes, sun tinted skin.

He wonders would Namine see the same, if she ever offered him the chance to stand next to his own son, to hold his living legacy in his arms. To look into Tidus' blue eyes, and see what he has to offer the following generation.

It's a hollowing experience to look back on his life and realise he never really managed to do any of it right.

_It's a sad story, but I guess we wrote it that way._

_These stories aren't written for us, Roxas. They're written about us._

And he does all he can do. Peels his lips apart to let out a desperate, devastating laugh, a gesture that sets a strange expression across Axel's face, like he suddenly realises something's wrong. He opens his mouth to ask his potentially condemning question.

_'Every word is a curse, let loose on me.'_

Roxas steps away before Axel has a chance to drop his verbal bomb. He keeps fizzling blue eyes rooted to the patchy earth, stepping over those who played their roles in his life story. People who were heroes for a few brief moments.

He is not rejuvenated, no such thing as a renewed faith in the human race. But he'll smile and bare it. It works for Axel.

"Where were you when I was new?" he whispers under his breath, fighting to keep his eyes fixed on the path. No desire to see the father and son combination behind him. Where had Axel been when he knew how to smile, when his brother was alive, when Namine still loved him. When Demyx was only a far off dream.

For these stories, there are no happy endings, no 'happily ever after', because these stories don't end, life continues on.

He walks away, and despite how much he convinces himself. He never goes back. His second and final time to abandon Axel and the pain is enough to rival how it felt the first time.

He's resigned to his loneliness, Ariel hardly a consolation for his suffering.

Angry that despite all Axel's promises, his repeated devotion, words he offered before.

_'If you ever left, I know I'd count down the days 'til I saw you again.'_

It's not that he didn't recognise his best friend from the history of a car crash.

...

He's blind.

A gift courtesy of a raging Saix.

Axel hasn't recognised anything in years. He'll never see his son, but what hurts the most is the regardless of how much he convinced himself that he would.

Axel never did see Roxas again.


End file.
